#utsr redux

[marlahey]

​​under the same roof part four: please say it

a harry styles rpf part four of six ratings/warnings: les sexy times like woah, sleepy sleepy intimacy because it hurts so good, too many conversations around food because it’s all annie knows  notes: so my toxic trait is apparently only ever having the urge to write between 1-3am during some of the longest depressive periods of my life, but never actually writing because I’m supposed to be sleeping. good times!! I know it’s been literal years and we are so grateful to everyone who’s been waiting so patiently for the back half of UTSR. part 5 and 6 have actually been in good shape for a long time, so blame part 4 for this astronomical wait.  I make no commitments as to when they’ll be up, but ideally over the next few weeks. maybe? hopefully. fingers crossed. no one knows, including aj and I. she sends her love. masterlist | part five (tbd)  Sunday, 6th January 2019. 8:22 PM ………………………………………… “You’re being awfully quiet.”

“Yeah sorry,” you mumble. Take away from your favourite Vietnamese restaurant is carefully laid out on Harry’s coffee table. You think about Annie, and Harry’s goodbye with his daughter. “Just deciding what to eat.” The slightly grainy video version of India looks at you carefully over the rim of her beer. “Babe, just try and enjoy yourself, yeah?” She lowers her voice, as if you’re not currently alone in Harry’s flat and she in her room, and says gently, “He’s not here. You’re safe.” You nod half-heartedly, watching her adjust her bowl of pho carefully with one hand, chopsticks aloft in the other. “I know, I know. I can’t help it. I swear I’m going crazy, like, I feel like I see him everywhere but I know it’s not him, I just…” “I get it.” India’s empathy is never half-hearted; you try to submerge yourself in it like water. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. We got your favorites.” “I guess.” She watches you fiddle with the paper sleeve of your chopsticks. “It’s not too late to come and stay at my flat—” “Indy.” “I can talk to my flatmates and my sofa is more comfortable than it—” “Harry already set up a mattress for me.” That stops India’s wheedling in its tracks. “You serious? Like a proper mattress?” “Yeah.” “That’s really sweet.” “I know, it’s actually really comfortable. I slept on it last night.” You lean your elbows on the table and cover your face with your hands. “He’s almost too kind—his whole family is—it makes me feel bad… He’s acting like I’m not inconveniencing him at all when like, I obviously am.” “Wait.” India’s jaw drops. “You met his whole family yesterday?” “Well, not technically his whole family. Just Sylvia’s mom and her fiancé.” “Sylvia?” “His daughter.” “Oh yeah. Future is female. We love her.” “They were the nicest people. They just acted like everything was normal and it… I don’t know.” You shrug. “It hasn’t felt like that in a while.” “Maybe, you’re not inconveniencing him that much, I dunno.” The smell of curry, spicy sweet and sour soup, and an order of morning glory had initially made your stomach growl. You’d ordered an extra serving of rice, anticipating keeping leftovers in Harry’s fridge– that is, until the whirlwind of his family took up every available inch of space in order to feed you. “Try to give him the benefit of the doubt, yeah?” India continues after you’ve taken a bite. “How’s that going by the way?” “It’s… ” You pick at a piece of okra from the soup bowl. “Yeah, it’s fine, it feels a bit like camping. I keep getting on the lift and automatically pressing the eighth floor and then remembering but it’s honestly nice not having to figure out a new tube schedule or running path or, like, place to park your car or whatever.” “I meant, how is it going with Harry?” The okra is too hot, but you keep chewing anyway. You know what she meant. “To be honest, we haven’t seen much of each other since the police station. I’ve been super busy with the archives and work stuff and Harry’s been spending a lot of time with Sylvia.” India’s eyes light up. “That’s adorable!” “No,” you shake your head. “It’s sad. She, like, has to stay at her mom’s an extra week instead of with him.” “Didn’t he suggest that though? He was the one who told the officer that you should—” “Well, he probably felt obligated since—” Your best friend cuts you off firmly with your own name. “Harry is a grown man. He has agency. There are different choices he could have made, and if it came down to it, there are other places you could have stayed. He decided to ask you to stay with him and that’s that.” India leans back, dropping her napkin onto the table as if to make her point. You just look at her, chewing. “You’re going to make one hell of an attorney when we graduate.” “Fucking right I am.” She winks. “So what are you two doing about, like… meals? Do you both go grocery shopping?” “I stopped by the shops today to pick up a few things. I don’t want Harry to think I’m using his apartment as like, a bed and breakfast or something. He’s cooked for me so far when we’re both home though—or he always fixes me a plate anyway.” “Have you like, offered him money?” “Yes! He won’t hear it.” She fans herself with her hand, pretending to swoon. “Such a gentleman.” “I know. It kills me.” You know you shouldn’t talk with your mouth half full, but India is long past caring. “It’s crazy. I think he just thinks I’m some broke uni student or whatever—and I mean, he’s not wrong… I think when this is all over I’m going to leave him a thank you card and a bottle of wine or something.” The conversation lulls for several minutes as you both eat, India her pho and you alternating spoonfuls of curry with the tart vegetables inside the soup. You wonder how much Vietnamese Harry can speak. “Do you think he likes you?” You pretend to be focused on ladling broth without spilling. “Definitely not. Well, maybe. I don’t know.” When you glance up, India’s expression is dubious at best. “I don’t know! We don’t see each other enough. Like, this morning I was out on a run before he even woke up. I think… yeah I think I’m going to try to spend as much time out of his way as possible, actually.” “Has he—have either of you brought up New Years?” “No.” The thought makes you wince. “I… I actually have to tell you something.” “Oh my god, spill.” You brace yourself. “We slept together.” “I knew it!” It comes out so loud as to be tinny from your terrible laptop speakers “Christ, relax!!” you hiss. “We didn’t have sex. I just slept in his bed, it was on the first night after that guy came back to knock on Harry’s door at like one o’clock in the morning and I was freaked out so we just… kind of, y’know.” “Who initiated it?” “Me! Of course it was me. Harry wouldn’t… ” You sigh, shaking your head. “Nothing else happened.” “Did it make you feel better?” she asks gently. “Yes…” You don’t know why it’s so hard to admit, but you feel a rush of that same weight immediately lifting like it had two nights ago. “It did. I felt so much better.” India’s switch from gentle understanding to exasperation gives you whiplash. “Then what is the bloody spare mattress for?” You give her a sidelong look. “I’m thinking it was like a one-time thing, Indy.” “Do you want it to be a one-time thing?” she presses. You fiddle with the last piece of squid in the curry bowl. “I don’t know.” “Well have you even talked about it?” You shake your head. “Yeah but… obviously now’s not the time for that.” India snorts; you narrow your eyes at her. “What?” “This is so gonna blow up in your face.” “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, sounding defensive even to yourself. “That is bollocks and you know it. Are you seriously going to pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?” Something inside you snaps a little. “Well what would you do if you were me?” “If I were you,” India says, infuriatingly patient, “I’d be more honest with my best friend about how I felt.” Your chopsticks fall to the glass tabletop with a clatter. “I’m not trying to be bashful or like, clutch my pearls at what you’re saying, India… I want to be excited about him. But think about how we got here.” You sigh and lean your forehead in your hands. You’ve suddenly lost your appetite, so you go on. “I just… I feel like any chance that Harry and I had to be something after New Years… It’s gone now because of this horrible, ugly, humiliating situation and there’s nothing either of us can do about it now and it can’t go back to the way it was and it can’t go forward and like, I can tell he feels bad and awkward about it, too—it’s obviously on his mind, you know?” Your best friend is quiet for a long time until you look back up at her. “Okay first of all, I’m not going to tell you that your feelings are invalid because they’re not, but surely you know that none of this is your fault, right? You’re not purposefully like, flinging yourself at Harry’s feet because he’s your ominous Mr. Darcy and makes five hundred a year.” “Okay, ease up on the Jane Austen references, please.” India points her chopsticks like a weapon. “Never. But you hear me, don’t you? You shouldn’t be embarrassed about a situation that’s literally out of your control. You don’t have to put up this wall—” she gestures at you through the screen, like you’re really at a table in your favourite restaurant and not staring at poor reproductions of each other’s faces— “Maybe it is a little bit awkward, but you shouldn’t pretend that you weren’t interested in him—or that he wasn’t interested in you. It takes two people to kiss in a lift, you know.” “I love how you’re trying to make it sound as if I was not one of those people.” India just waves away your sarcasm. “That was five days ago. You’ve fancied each other for a year. Those kinds of things can’t just disappear overnight. And I’m not saying you should, like, try to put the moves on him while you’re staying together,” she says, then pauses to tilt her head. “Although… ” “Indy.” “Alright, fine. All I’m saying is you can’t just act like it never happened.” Silence settles over the call as you circle the rim of your beer with your finger. You both know she’s right. “Well,” India says at last. “I don’t know about you but I’m getting stuffed. I’ve got a case brief to procrastinate, a couple Great British Bake Off reruns saved on the telly, and a very grumpy cat to spoil with treats.” “Oh my god,” you moan. “You’re going to make Chowder fat.” “I absolutely am.” Monday, 7th January 2019. 5:37 PM ………………………………………… When you emerge from working on the floor of Sylvia’s room with an ache in your lower back, Harry is bobbing his head along to music with a dishrag over his shoulder, dressed down in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He shoots you a quick smile before turning the music back up. “You know this one?” He nods to the stereo. “Of course.” Harry whistles, drawing it out. “You’re good.” “No,” you admit. “I think I’m just getting lucky. Bad Moon Rising is about all I know by these guys.” “How was your lecture?” Harry nudges the fish one more time in the skillet before busying himself with a few fresh vegetables. “It was good. I’m lucky the prof’s been recording them since the beginning of term so it wasn’t hard to ask to do class from home.” You rinse your fingertips under the faucet before finding a spot by his side. Placing your hands on top of each of his, you take over the knife, tomato, and cabbage. “Am I chopping these?” “Uh—yeah that’s great. Thanks.” “How was yours?” “Same as always—” “Did you get those today?” You don’t mean to cut him off. Harry follows your gaze to the vase of white tulips by the sink. The freshly cut stems are still dripping onto the unfurled wrap of newspaper. “Yeah, I mean.” He shrugs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Had a few extra quid on me at the shops… Do you like them?” “Yeah they’re nice…” you trail off, pausing in your chopping to peer over your shoulder at the living room. The Legos have disappeared into a basket and there is no Christmas tree in sight. You hadn’t heard a sound all afternoon. “You’ve been busy.” Harry laughs once, noncommittally; now that you’re standing closer, you can tell he shaved, as well. “I figure if there’s nobody around to make a mess for a little while, I may as well spruce the place up a bit.” The sound of your knife ceases again as you’re struck with a sudden pang of guilt. Harry looks over at you in a double-take from the stove. “No, it’s nice!” he rushes. “I can’t remember the last time I had the flat to myself for so long. I hardly know what to do with all the free time.” “You don’t really have it to yourself, though, do you?” It comes out a bit under your breath. “I’m happy to have you. And it’s not like Sylvia’s locked up in a dungeon somewhere—” you laugh abruptly and he points the spatula at you— “Don’t tell Annie I said that. I didn’t mean it.” “Of course not.” “Point is,” he continues, smiling gently, “She’s a ten-minute walk away—seven minutes if you’re sober and it isn’t pouring rain.” You bite back a smile in spite of yourself, your heart stuttering. Is he talking about New Year’s? “I’m stopping by tomorrow. Please don’t feel bad. It’s actually kind of relaxing.” You offer no reply so the two of you continue cooking to the tune of a new song. “Food’s about ready.” He plates the tortillas and blackened mahi for both of you before pouring over the chipotle sauce and vegetables. “What do you fancy to drink?” “I’m all set.” You raise your water glass, resting a hand on the back of one of the dining chairs still left in the kitchen. “Are we eating in here again?” “I think that’s best, yeah. It’s probably fine to pull some of the blinds down tomorrow.” Harry hands you your plate before cracking open a bottle of Stella. “You like guacamole?” He takes a swig, peering into the fridge. “What kind of a question is that?” you shoot back. Harry laughs once, covering his mouth with his wrist, then pops the lid off the plastic tub with his thumb and walks over to tap some guac onto your plate and his. “Oh—don’t wait for me…” he scolds. “You and your manners.” “I don’t mind. You made dinner.” “We made dinner.” “I sliced a tomato.” Harry takes a seat across from you and your knees almost bump. “Are you finally going to let me take the dishes tonight?” Harry simply raises his Stella and clinks it with your glass. You turn your attention back to the food and moan into the first bite of your taco. He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s okay?” “Better than.” Your mouth is full so you cover it with your fingertips before getting lost in conversation while Fleetwood Mac and Elton John play faintly in the background. As you sit across from each other, some part of you wonders if he gets lonely in the weeks he doesn’t have Sylvia. Before you know it, your plate is clean. You stand, set your dishes in the sink, and reach behind you without looking. You nudge Harry’s shoulder as you run the water and the ceramic of his plate touches your fingertips a moment later. “Thank you.” His voice comes softly from behind you. “Of course.” Harry doesn’t let the first plate linger on the countertop before he grabs a dish towel and begins to dry. The task passes in surprisingly comfortable silence, nearly complete when Harry reaches for the kettle. “Would you like some tea?” “Are you having some?” “What kind of a question is that?” Harry mimics. You roll your eyes with a laugh. “Yes, I would like some.” He switches the stereo off, filling the kettle before returning it to the stovetop. “You still want to sleep in Sylvia’s room?” Harry’s voice is soft again. You pause, fiddling with the damp sponge, and allow too much time to lapse before answering. “What do you think?” “Where do I think you should sleep?” Harry retrieves two mugs from the cabinet, “Or where do I think you want to sleep?” “The first.” There’s nothing left to dry so you set about wiping down the countertop and he raises no objection. “I think it’s completely up to you.” Harry opens his mouth again, but closes it and waits for you to respond. “I’ll take the nursery.” You’re glad to have something to look at instead of him. “Alright,” Harry replies evenly. You’d been testing the waters to see if he’d call your bluff and you would be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed. The kettle begins to steam before you speak again. You swallow dryly. “You didn’t really answer the question.” “Sorry?” “Where… where do you want me to sleep?” you push. Harry looks away from you to pour two even mugs in concentration. “Well, you want to take the nursery.” Harry adds your dash of cream. Fleetingly, you think that’s all you’re going to get out of him. “What I want—” Your heart jumps. “Where I want you to sleep doesn’t matter.” You remember your desire from Saturday at the police station, to reclaim your time. On top of that desire, you want time better spent. It’s staring you in the face right now, daring you to lean in. Be brave. “What if I wanted you to tell me anyway?” Harry leans a hand against the edge of the counter and sets the kettle back down on the stovetop, his eyes landing somewhere vaguely in the space between you. “I think… I might want you to sleep in the same place you did… y’know, the first night. So that’s… Yeah. That’s how I feel… about that.” You take care to refold the dishrag and smooth it over before hanging it back around the neck of the faucet. “Let’s do that then.” You take a minute at the sink with nothing else to busy your hands before turning your head to Harry, unable to look him square in the eyes. He walks slowly toward you, although you know it’s because he’s trying not to spill your tea. You can smell the lingering detergent on his shirt. He looms there to set your mug on the counter beside you, then turns to make his way wordlessly down the hall. You down your entire mug of tea in the kitchen alone as Harry takes the first turn in the bathroom before he slips into his room. You’re quick to follow suit, the minty tang of Harry’s toothpaste washing away the lingering taste of tacos and tea. The suitcase of your things in Sylvia’s room awaits you, and you slip into a tee shirt and some cotton shorts. The lights are out in Harry’s bedroom when you creep in, shutting the door softly behind you. For the second time, you tuck yourself in as far away from him as possible on the other side of the mattress. It’s still close enough to smell his shampoo. You close your eyes, but this isn’t the way you were expecting to feel. When sleep doesn’t come for twenty minutes you sigh, flipping onto your back. A beat passes. Harry shifts beside you. “Can’t sleep?” You just shake your head. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks gently. You almost say, no. “I think I’m more angry than I realized.” The words tumble out. Somehow you find it easier to confess to the ceiling instead of facing him. “I’m mad that I couldn’t have that first dinner out with India. I’m mad I couldn’t just go to the library to do my coursework. I’m still kinda mad about my sweater. I’m mad that he ruined—” You almost don’t catch yourself. Harry waits a long time before he asks, “Ruined what?” like he’s wary of your answer. You let out a long breath, suddenly exhausted. Part of you misses your days with Harry on the lift, when you always had the agency to decide what you wanted to share with him, and when, on your own terms. There doesn’t seem to be a side of you he hasn’t seen in the last year, the last week, or even the last few days. “The first time we saw each other since New Year’s,” you finish. You’ve turned unwittingly to look at him. Harry’s lips press together like he’s trying not to smile. “Well,” he begins slowly, “S’ not like we were never going to see each other again.” His head bobs as if to say, case in point, and you laugh a little in spite of yourself, tucking the duvet closer to your chin. “I’m looking at you right now,” Harry says. “And there’s no one around to ruin this.” You can’t quite name the expression in his eyes, but you feel the composure of your own face give way. His gaze locks you in place, but there’s a strange urge to flee inside you. “True,” you manage, practically a whisper. “Though you may get sick of me, Harry.” His chest moves with a laugh, so soft it’s nearly soundless. “Don’t think so, love.” You wish your eyelids weren’t so heavy. You want to live in this moment as long as you can. Wednesday, 9th January 2019. 9:31 PM ………………………………………… “Whatcha watchin’?” Harry is toeing out of his boots by the door. You’d been so engrossed in your film that you hadn’t even heard him come in. He had left you to your own devices for most of the evening, claiming someone very small was going to be very cross if he didn’t pop over to Annie and AJ’s for a recap of show-and-tell day at school. Now several hours later, Harry rubs his palms together to warm his hands as you smile in welcome. “Les Choristes,”you reply, reaching for the coffee table to hit pause on your laptop. “The Chorus.For my French class.” “Very nice.” “Kettle’s hot, if you want some tea.” Harry’s eyes light up. “You’re a saint, ‘s freezing out.” He pours himself a cup before moseying over and finding a spot on the armrest of the couch beside you. You play the movie again and lay still as Harry watches over your shoulder, blowing at the steam. “Did you take French in school?” you venture. “Oui.” “Do you understand any of this?” "No… je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille is about all I can remember.” “Your accent is still good,” you observe. Harry’s chuckle echoes in his mug. Neither of you say anything for a scene or two. “I’ve got a few emails to send for the gallery. Mind if I bring my laptop out and join you?” “Not at all,” you reply around a yawn. Harry hesitates before rounding the corner into the hallway. “You’re feeling alright about the blinds?” Your eyes flicker to the covered windows of his living room before meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Thank you.” Harry nods once before disappearing. He joins you on the couch a minute later in a vintage ENJOY HEALTH • EAT YOUR HONEYshirt and sweatpants, a silver Macbook under his arm. You tuck your feet in a little so he can comfortably fit. “How was Sylvia?” Harry smiles immediately. “Hilarious, as usual. Annie and AJ say hello.” “That’s nice of them. I’m glad you were able to see her…” You worry a corner of the pillow between your fingertips. “I’m sorry again about—” “Apology jar.” “But I—” “Don’t even start with all that. This is hardly the first time she’s stayed longer at either of our places because of work trips and the like. She barely even misses me.” Harry looks over the screen of his laptop and smiles absently. “I walk through the door and she’s all, Daddy, what are you doing here so early?Like… Cheers, pumpkin, happy to see you, too.” You laugh at Harry’s squeaky impression of his daughter. “I’m sure she was.” He types quietly beside you for most of the movie as you muffle a few more yawns, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch cushions. At one point you startle awake squinting, a drop of drool in the corner of your mouth. Harry is still at the end of the couch with his computer, focusing intently on a screen of text; white light flashes on the lenses of his glasses. Your toes, clad in thick wool socks, are tucked beneath his thigh. One of his hands is heavy and warm atop your ankles. You blink a few times before dropping your head back to the pillow and refocusing on Les Choristes. Pretty soon your eyelids are heavy again. When you wake next, the flat is dark and Harry is gone. Your laptop is shut on the coffee table and the throw he’d given you on your first night slides from around your shoulders as you sit up. Your phone tells you it’s past one—using its flashlight and your working memory of the flat’s layout, you creep to the bathroom and brush your teeth, half-heartedly washing your face. The shape of Harry asleep on his side of the bed is almost familiar, now. You drop the throw in a puddle at your feet as you slide up the mattress. He’s pulled the entire duvet around him, and just when you think you may have to pick that second blanket off of the floor, he stirs. “Whas’it?” Harry barely sounds conscious. Half his face is visible in the shadows as he twists back towards you. “It’s me,” you whisper. “It’s just me.” He relinquishes his grip on the duvet so you can gently pull some over for yourself. You half expect Harry to roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, when you turn your back to him, two arms snake around your waist and drag you to the center of the bed. Harry’s nose digs into the back of your neck as he sighs an exhale over the top of your spine. His arms are locked so tightly around you that you have no choice but to lean back into the curve of his chest. You blink at the opposite wall. This is happening. His hand slips beneath the hem of your tee shirt, landing warm on your stomach as his thumb strokes once, twice over the hollow between your ribs. He’s asleep. You can tell. You, on the other hand, lay awake for a long time. Thursday, 10th January 2019. 9:48 PM ………………………………………… You wake up to the sound of the front door shutting, a thirty-page case brief slipping off your chest. A red pen lays sweaty in your hand and as you reach to unstick the hair from your cheek, you almost stab yourself in the eye with it. “You’ve got to stop falling asleep on tha’ couch,' Harry chuckles at you with a bottle of red wine in hand, having a bit more difficulty than usual stepping out of his shoes. His suit is charcoal black and entirely covered in sparkles. “You’re dressed up,” you notice. “That work thing I texted you about ran late… Had t’ help clean up.” “Did you now?” Harry nods, a bit delayed. “There’s baked mac in the oven if you’re—” Harry cuts you off with a near obscene groan. “Fucking incredible.” He’s trying not to look at you and trying not to smile all at once. You raise your eyebrows at him as he stumbles to the kitchen. The wine bottle lands with a heavy clank against the counter as he bends down to the oven, rubbing his hands together eagerly. You laugh at him under your breath and turn your attention back to your case brief. “How’s the coursework?” he calls to you from the kitchen around a mouthful. You finish skimming the paragraph you were on before responding, but do not look up. “Uh… good. Work?” “It was good, yeah.” You turn the page before hearing his voice again. “Saw a woman across from me in the tube today wearin’ a birthday crown with glitter… Gonna be Sylvia’s birthday soon—and mine. We’re Aquariuses. Aquari? Wha’s the plural of Aquarius?” You can hear Harry shovel in another bite. “Do you believe in astrology?” “I don’t… know,” you laugh, looking up with a finger on the text to keep your place. “A lot of my friends are into it.” He’s eating with a long wooden spoon, poking his tongue out to chase after a breadcrumb on the side of his mouth. His eyes are glassy. You snort a laugh and give in, tossing your case brief and pen on the coffee table. You hop onto the counter as Harry leans across from you, holding the glass container of baked mac you left for him aloft. He sighs, closing his eyes and swallowing before he speaks again. “I can’t stand when the gallery does big, posh events.” “Why not?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, crossing your legs. “‘Cause I hate gettin’ a sitter and I hate getting home late and I’m shit at kissin’ arse and I can’t start conversations.” You laugh and walk over to fill Harry a glass of water, handing it to him with a napkin before returning to your seat. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “M’ I being embarrassing?” “No,” you laugh, eyeing the bottle he’d brought home. “I see you’re really sticking to your New Year’s resolution, though.” “Yeah… There was loads extra. Dunno if you’re a wine drinker,” he says around another bite, narrowing his eyes at you accusingly. “Red or white?” “Red.” “No shit. S’ Côtes du Rhône,” He nods to the bottle. “Usually above my pay grade. Fancy a glass?” He’s setting the dish down and dusting off his hands before you get a chance to respond. You watch him gulp down about half his glass of water and wipe his face clean with the napkin. The contents of the utensil drawer noisily bang around Harry’s hand before he fishes out a corkscrew. You bite your lip against a smile as he rips off the capsule with his teeth and then struggles with the bottle opener. There’s a rubbery pop, and then a familiar glugging sound as he fills two stemless wine glasses. Harry smirks at you before handing one over. “I’m sure this is extra credit in your French class or something.” “I don’t quite think it works like that, but thank you.” “Cheers.” “Cheers.” The two of you do not break eye contact as you take your first sips. It’s stronger than you’d been expecting. You don’t know the first thing about French wine, but you can tell from the packaging of the bottle it’s expensive. “When is your birthday?” you ask after an abbreviated pause. “Mine’s the first of February. Sylvia’s is the fourth.” “Do you celebrate them together?” “I mean there’s not been a terribly long track record for it, love, but we have the last few years, yeah… Hope she still wants to do that when she’s older. She’s growing like a fuckin’ weed. I know it’s what everyone says is gonna happen but s’true.” “What does she want this year?” “A bloody dog, what else.” You laugh as he takes another sip of wine. “Me n’ Annie have been trying to negotiate around that one.” “I imagine that’s what I wanted, too, when I was her age.” “Yeah… sorry, we don’t have to talk about her.” You frown at him in concern. “Why wouldn’t I want to talk about her?” “Cause you always start to apologize about stayin’ here for no reason.” “That’s not true—I just, y’know…” You take a long sip of wine. “I see how much she loves you and it makes me feel guilty.” “She asked about you, you know.” Harry smiles at you over the rim of his glass. “Asked if Daddy’s friend was havin’ a nice time in her room… She also wanted to make sure I was keeping an eye on her stars since she’s convinced you’re gonna nick ‘em.” “Well,” you say slowly, holding back a laugh. “You can report to Sylvia that her stars are safe and sound.” You almost drop your gaze from Harry’s but hang on at the last moment. “And that I’m having a nice time, all things considered.” “You mean that?” “I do.” Harry tilts his head back to finish off his glass. You hold yours out to him wordlessly, already starting to feel a bit warm. He grabs the bottle and tops you both off. “Here’s to havin’ a nice time, all things considered…” Harry raises his glass. “And to sort-of friends,” you add before both of you drink. He grins up at you again with wine-red lips before lengthening the toast. “Here’s to comin’ home drunk to baked mac and cheese.” “Here’s to graduating from your god awful air mattress.” Harry tosses his head back and laughs. “Here’s to Charles thinking he’s caught us.” Harry shakes his head, smiling at the kitchen floor. “Christ, he’s such a gossip.” “Maybe that should just stay between us,” you chuckle. “I’ve heard that before.” You’re struck by déjà vu. It had only been a handful of nights ago that the two of you had danced around a goodnight. When he speaks again, you can’t decide if he’s annoyed or amused. “Why’d you say it? In the lift on New Year’s… d’you regret it?” “No,” you hiccup, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to.” “I wanna kiss you most of the time.” Harry frowns, pausing to shake his head. “Shouldn’t ‘ave said that—” “Does that include now?” “What?” His eyes snap back to yours. The words had fallen out of your mouth like you’d dropped them by accident; the shock written on Harry’s face probably rivals yours as you slowly set down your glass and uncross your legs. “Do you want to kiss me right now?” He blinks, almost in slow motion. “Yes.” Your feet hit the kitchen floor. You’re taking two wobbly steps forward before you can think, but Harry has already pushed off the counter to meet you halfway. His hands find either side of your face and he kisses you the complete opposite to how he had on New Year’s—so hard, and so sure that you’re pushed back the distance you’d crossed to get to him. His body presses your lower back up against the countertop where you’d just been sitting. Is this happening? This is happening. Harry tastes like Côtes du Rhône but you swear the kiss is making you more drunk. You tilt your head the other way; his mouth opens to let you in a bit more. You nip at his lower lip; his tongue brushes against yours once, then again, a rhythm and urgency that quickly starts to feel frenzied. You’re so carried away that your teeth clack together by accident. Your fingers curl into his hair; it’s softer than you had imagined. Without breaking your kiss, Harry wraps his hands around your waist and squeezes before lifting you back up on the countertop, having little discretion for being gentle about it. You arch into him and his hands are on the backs of your knees, pulling you into his chest. You’d slide off the edge if not for the way his body pins you in place. He cradles the back of your head so you don’t bang it against the wooden cabinet. You lock your legs at the ankles behind Harry’s back, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to slip his hand underneath the fabric of your shirt. You’re not wearing a bra. He’s touching high enough on your ribs for him to know that. But all Harry does is try to pull you closer to him by pressing his palm into your back and it’s a little bit frustrating. “We need t’stop,” Harry pants, breaking away. “Or I dunno if I’m gonna be able.” You’re also chasing your breath rather raggedly, but you nod in agreement. “You’re right. It’s getting late. And we’ve been drinking.” Harry strokes the side of your face with his thumb and you almost lean in to kiss him again. You have to shake your head and focus. “We should be getting to bed.” “Yeah.” Harry drops his warm hands to your knees. “Are you gonna sleep in my bed?” “I mean… I don’t have to—” “No, I’d like you to—s’just… We have to be good.” Harry flexes his jaw and swallows roughly. You’re not sure if the reminder is for you or him. He leans his forehead against yours the way he had after your first kiss on New Years. “Okay?” “Of course,” you breathe. Harry makes a faint sound in the back of his throat and tilts his head to brush his lips along your cheekbone before ghosting across your ear. Your eyes close as the tip of his nose grazes your jaw, the warmth of his breath making the small hairs on your skin stand up. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss into the slope of your neck, and then another, and then another. “I need a cold shower,” he sighs against your collar. Your abrupt, wine-induced giggle quickly slips out of your control. “What?” Harry bursts, exaggerated through his own laughter. “I’m trying to be good, didn’t you jus’ hear me?” You still can’t stop. “I’m leavin’ you here.” He throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head with a barely contained smile as he stalks off to his bedroom. Just before the door shuts behind him, you hear Harry’s voice again from the end of the hallway. “Aren’t you coming?” Friday, 11th January 2019. 7:21 PM ………………………………………… Of course your phone always rings when it’s forgotten in the next room and you’d just gotten comfortable. You spring up from Harry’s couch and manage to answer just before the call probably would’ve gone to voicemail. “Hello?” “Hi, this is Officer Warren calling from the Metropolitan Police at Lavender Hill Station.” The blood drains from your face as your scarf and handbag both slide from your grip with an audible thump against the hardwood. Harry is setting down the boxes, but his head jerks up at the sound. “Are you still there?” “Yes,” you blurt. “Yes, I’m here. Is there… Is there news?” Harry hesitates. You see the thought cross his mind to give you privacy the way he always does when you take personal phone calls, but you reach for his wrist before he gets the chance to step away. “Yes, I have an update. It’s good news.” You’re still clutching the phone to your ear in a death grip, and you can hardly process anything after the words, we found him. Harry’s eyes are frantically searching your face. “It was actually a stroke of maybe unfortunate luck. He’s been arrested for a robbery that turned into a homicide...the poor store clerk was killed. He and his partner are going to be in jail for a long time.” You slide down to the floor, realizing belatedly that you’ve effectively dragged Harry down too. “I...that’s...oh my god.” “We’d like to also book him on the stalking and assault charges, which would lengthen his sentence further. Would you be able to come down to the station tomorrow to identify him?” You nod before remembering Officer Warren can’t see you. “Yes. Yes, of course.” “You can take a breath now, sweetheart. It’s over.” It’s over. “Thank you so much.” You can barely speak. Before hanging up, you confirm a time for tomorrow morning and your cheeks are wet when you cup your hands to your mouth. “What’s happened?” Harry asks, sounding alarmed. “They caught him,” you choke out. Harry’s eyes light up, but the beginnings of a smile fade quickly. “What is it?” “I…” Your hands shake. Harry folds them in his. The shapes of his rings are grounding, somehow. “He was arrested for a robbery and he– they killed a man. And I just…what would’ve happened if he hadn’t done that?” “They would’ve found him,” he insists. “It’s okay, love.” He brushes the hair back from your face, cradling your cheek. “It’s okay to be happy it’s over.” You should be celebrating but you’re crying instead, a strange mixture of guilt and relief. Harry tugs you closer until the tears run dry. “Everything’s alright. You don’t have to hide anymore.” “I need to call my parents.” You pull back to dab at your eyes with your sleeve. “God, I honestly can’t believe it.” “Go on then.” Harry brushes past you to the front door, shrugging into his winter coat. “I’m gonna nip down to the off-license. This calls for more alcohol than we have, which is currently none. And I’m gonna ring Annie… I’ll be like ten minutes, yeah?” You just nod, a little too overcome to move; you’re still standing there as he disappears out the door. After gathering your bearings, you curl up into a ball on Harry’s couch and your mom picks up after the first ring. Your entire family is crying as you share the news, and you eventually have to get up and pace the living room with a hand laying flat on the top of your head. You’re still on the phone walking laps around Harry’s apartment, but turn when you hear the jingle of keys. Harry appears with a tall, brown paper bag under his arm, shaking dappled droplets of rain from his hair, and wiping his glasses on the sleeve of his jacket. The lucid green of his irises contrasts with the rosy color in his cheeks and nose as he smiles gently at you. Your feet have stopped moving. Harry watches you closely from where he stands; he’s also stopped scuffing his feet on the welcome mat. “Um… love you guys.” It comes out softer than you had intended. “I—I actually have to call you back.” One of your siblings is saying something on the other line, but you’ve already ended the call as the final warble of someone’s goodbye is drowned in the silence of Harry’s apartment. He is utterly still, reading you. You pivot in place, your feet carrying you to him before you give yourself the chance to reconsider. It’s almost as if your revelation had sparked something in Harry because suddenly he’s moving toward you, too. The leather chair stands in your path but you narrowly dodge it; Harry finds the nearest flat surface to stand the bottle of wine. You’re practically scrambling toward each other, and meet halfway in the living room. He wraps his arms around you completely and you’re on your toes with fistfuls of his collar, but your mouths meet first, almost in a crash. Harry kisses you like you’re running out of time—like it’s the last important thing he’ll ever do. The irony is that this is the first moment that the two of you, in fact, have all the time in the world. You don’t think it’s physically possible to get close enough to him. His face is still chilled from the rain, but his lips are warm against yours. The contrast makes you tingle and you realize that this is the first completely sober kiss you’ve shared. He gently tugs your lip in his teeth; your nose nudges his glasses. He curses into your mouth and in the next breath, Harry reaches up between you and yanks the frames from his face. He tosses them in the general direction of the coffee table, where they clatter and fall to the floor and you laugh before you can help it. Harry takes the reprieve to slide both hands down to your hips. His thumbs dig into the soft part of your waist as he walks you backward to pin you against the wall, ducking his head down. You lean back to catch your breath, but Harry is undeterred. Your pulse jumps as he works his way down your jaw to nip at your neck in a trail. It’s exhilarating to feel him really kiss you somewhere that isn’t your lips. You tilt your chin up to encourage him, but you’re surprised when Harry presses his mouth into the skin above your breast, over your racing heart– just once, like he’s introducing himself. Before you can help it, you’re carried away by the thought of his tongue and teeth grazing that same spot. “Let me make you dinner,” he says into your collarbone. “Please.” “You’re seriously thinking about dinner?” Under normal circumstances, you’d be embarrassed at how breathy you sound, but it’s a miracle you can even string a sentence together. Harry’s laugh raises goosebumps over your skin. “Seems like the safest thing to be thinkin’ about right now, love.” “We don’t have any food,” you point out. “Takeaway, then.” Harry gives you a quick peck, his smile lifting up higher on one side. “Curry, pizza… Whatever you want.” You simply stand there for a minute, stroking his back over the jacket he still hasn’t taken off. It feels so liberating to want anything and everything again. Friday, 11th January 2019. 8:30 PM ………………………………………… You lean back in your chair to rest your knee on Harry’s tiny wicker dining table, taking only your flute of champagne with you. He’s resting his elbows on the edge as he crumples a paper napkin and smiles at you, fishing something from his teeth with his tongue. “I’m stuffed,” you sigh. “So am I… Good recommendation. Don’t think I’ve had this place before.” “Yeah, it’s one of my top ten in London. The grapes don’t hurt either.” You swirl your drink in the air before taking a sip. “Would you like some more?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle. “Please… Thank you for getting dinner, Harry.” He frowns as he tops you off. “Of course. We’re celebrating.” A drop escapes over the neck of the bottle as he’s pulling back, and he catches it with his thumb before sucking the tip of his finger. His jawline and the sound of his thumb parting with his lips is a little too enticing; you sit up and start stacking empty takeout boxes to distract yourself, and Harry holds the mouth of the plastic takeout bag open for you to drop the waste in. You scoot the dining chairs in and follow Harry to the kitchen to wet a dish rag as he tosses the garbage in the bin. Van Morrison’s Brand New Day is playing softly from the stereo and you cannot fight your smile when you hear Harry turn the volume up as you wipe down the table. After hanging the rag back around the faucet with care, you spot Harry on the couch in the living room, leaning his elbow on the armrest, watching you with a cheek in his hand. “Tea?” you call over your shoulder. “M’ alright for now, love. Thanks.” You take your flute to join him with a cushion of distance between you, and place the bottle of champagne on the coffee table. He shifts to face you at the other end of the couch and it’s quiet as the two of you listen to the final minutes of the song play out. You know you’re going to have to go pick up Chowder and head back upstairs to your apartment at some point but this is so effortless, and light. It’s like you’ve been doing this with him forever. “Thank you so much, Harry. For everything you did for me this week… All of this.” You shake your head slowly, staring forward but at nothing in particular. “I’m indebted to you.” “S’ always strange to hear you say that,” he muses. “Strange how?” “Cause you’re making it sound as though… spending time with you is, like—” Harry laughs once, less than amused. He’s shaking his head now, too. “Nevermind.” He takes a drink from his glass. Your heart flutters a little. Ever so slowly, you graze your knuckles against Harry’s on the flat surface of the backrest. He doesn’t turn to look at you but he straightens his arm and twists his wrist a little to take your hand in his. “Harry?” “Hm?” “What would you have done after New Year’s if none of this had happened?” He’s quiet long enough for you to assume he isn’t going to answer your question at all. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot.” His voice is sober and taut. “And?” you prompt. Harry breaks from his trance to look at you earnestly. “M’not sure.” “Do you think anything would have changed?” “Like, do I think we would’ve gone back to just seeing each other in the lift every morning?” You nod. “After what happened that night, it just sorta meant that I couldn’t drag my feet anymore.” In the soft glow of the kitchen light, you can see that Harry’s cheeks are tainted in a slight blush. But then again, yours are warm, too. “Drag your feet about what?” He rolls his eyes, just a little. “You know what I mean.” “Please say it.” Harry looks at you for a long while before raising his drink to his lips, hesitating, and then resting the glass back in his lap. “I knew I couldn’t drag my feet anymore about asking you out.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, looking to the floor. You could compare the feeling in your chest to a firework show. “Were you planning to before that?” Harry huffs a laugh. “I can recall several instances alone in the lift with you, where I came very close to just saying outright, ‘could I take you to dinner sometime?’” “What stopped you?” you rush. Harry’s eyebrows knit in a perplexed frown. “We were like… on the way to work most of the time. Or, I guess, lectures or whatever for you. We’d barely exchanged two words—I didn’t even know your name… ” Another small laugh. “And you wanna know something really bad? I haven’t really dated since Sylvia was born. Came close once. But it got complicated and I couldn’t always find a sitter.” “Oh.” Although it makes sense—being a young, single parent certainly fills a schedule—for some reason that throws you for a loop. Harry starts playing with the tips of your fingers before speaking up again. “It’s a lot, you know? All this.” Harry nods vaguely at all the evidence of family in his apartment. “I’m kind of a package deal from the get go and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with all that. Even Annie and AJ are just…” He exhales sharply. “Love ‘em to bits, but they can be a bit much. And Sylvia means everything to me. S’not like I can hide her. Nor would I try to. That’s a lot from some guy you ride the lift with.” You’re lost for words, but it’s not because you don’t know how to feel. The constant racing of your heart is real. The sweat on your palms as Harry holds your hand right now is real. The warm, relentless tugging sensation in your chest that you get whenever you’re around each other is very, very real. Harry starts to stroke the back of your hand with his thumb before carrying on. “I’ve enjoyed having you ‘round this week, like… an irresponsible amount.” Harry licks his lips, still not meeting your eyes. “But I’d never want that to take away from your feeling safe.” He speaks slowly like his words are ellipses dripping from a sink. Working up the nerve to say what you need to is making you dizzy. But you force it out anyway. “Harry, I want to spend time with you, because I like to. I do feel safe with you. I know that’s been your first priority this whole time. But honestly? I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been hoping you’d ask me out, like–” and you smile tentatively– “An irresponsible number of times.” Harry leans over to take your champagne glass and sets it with his on the coffee table, sliding closer. “Will you?” he asks, so quietly hopeful that it makes you breath catch. “Go out with me?” This ridiculous urge to giggle bubbles up in your throat. “Yes. I’d love to.” Harry’s mouth is only on yours for a few seconds before he pulls away and the two of you get a chance to really look at each other. “We don’t have to rush into anything,” he says. “If you don’t want to. We can finally take our time.” We. Usually it’s easy for you to distinguish your emotional connection with Harry from your physical desire for him; up until now, you’ve compartmentalized the two. But for the first time, you feel the bond and the craving knotting together. “Yeah,” you agree. “I want us to do this right.” Us. You lean forward and press your lips against his again before you can help it, easing his mouth open in the cadence of the kiss. Harry’s lips are shiny and hang partly open when you pull away, like he wasn’t quite finished yet. “I feel like we’ve been doing this whole thing out of order,” you say, already sinking back to lay across the couch. You watch the wheels turn in his head as he figures out what you’re doing before he starts to follow. He reaches behind him to grab a pillow and tuck it behind your head before shifting to lay over you. “If that’s true… ” Harry spreads your legs to situate himself between them. His breathing is shallow. “Then what comes next?” “I don’t know. Tell me what you want.” “Well seeing as we’ve already fucked up the order,” he plants a soft, chaste kiss on your cheek, “we may as well continue our streak.” You place your hands on the sides of Harry’s face immediately and bring your mouths together. The rim of his glasses bumps against the bridge of your nose again but you don’t mind. After a minute, you feel his hand slip beneath your shirt. “Can I touch you?” You’re too breathless to speak so you nod and lay your hand on top of his, dragging the hem up to your chin. His thumb tucks against your collarbone to hold your shirt in place, tracing back and forth. You shudder even before Harry sinks down to lick, and kiss all across your chest. You arch your back and lift your arms above your head and he takes the hint, tugging your shirt all the way off and throwing it behind him without looking. Harry’s hands explore your body up and down, squeezing your backside, your thighs, the curve of your hips—as if to say, I like this bit, and this bit, and this bit. He adorns your nipples with kisses, encircling them with his tongue. The barest pressure of teeth makes you feel very serious, very quickly. You can feel how much he wants you, too, now that you’re pressed up against each other like this. Harry rubs his groin between your thighs once, slowly, like he’s trying to be a gentleman. But then he does it again. And again. With a soft groan, he caves and starts to pick up a steady rhythm, rocking his hips on yours until he’s hard enough for the pressure of it to ache slightly where you’re already sensitive. His tongue dances with yours in a way that draws something so carnal out of you that your hands are undoing the buckle of his belt before you realize what you’re doing. Harry inhales sharply and breaks the kiss. “Bed,” he says, clipped. Harry rolls off of you to stand, and you begin to swing your legs from off of the couch, but you’re scooped up into his arms before your feet even grace the floor. He carries you straight to the bedroom and you gasp as he hoists you once in the hallway to get a better grip, then sits you at the end of his bed with your knees hanging over the edge. You begin to lay back and Harry puts both hands on your shoulders to gently encourage that. He busies himself with the zipper of your jeans and you lift your hips off the bed as he tugs them down your thighs, one by one with care. The cuffs get caught around your heels and Harry laughs faintly while jostling them to free you. He stands between your legs at the edge of the bed, looking down at you. Your knee trembles straight as Harry lifts one of your legs by the ankle, closing his eyes briefly and nipping gently at the soft inside of your knee, while stroking up and down your other thigh. He pauses with his fingers hooked in the hem of your underwear, long enough that you croak, “Harry, please.” It stirs him into motion, and the fistful of fabric hits the floor without a sound. You blink to look away for a moment and when you turn to face him again, Harry is still looking directly into your eyes. He’s stopped moving briefly, so you lift your head for a better look at him. Harry is shaking his head softly as he sighs to himself. “You’re gorgeous.” he says simply. His eyes are even; it’s one of the most steadfast statements you’ve ever heard him utter. “Like, so much I can’t believe it sometimes.” You sit up slowly on your elbows, your head suddenly spinning; you haven’t forgotten that he’s staring down at you stark naked with your ankles on either side of his face. You open your mouth to thank him; you can’t. “I… ” “You comfortable?” Harry nods once at you. Tongue-tied still, you simply bob your head a few times in confirmation. “Good because you’re gonna stay like that for awhile.” You try to swallow but your throat has gone dry. With his belt buckle still undone and clinking, Harry runs his fingertips up the backs of your legs, sinking to his knees until all you can see is the green of his eyes peering up at you from over the horizon of your stomach. The anticipation is making this borderline intolerable; you’re starting to get uncomfortable because it’s almost too pleasant. Harry’s hands cup your backside before he finally leans in. For a while, he simply kisses you there in that similar, sort of intense way that he had been kissing you on the mouth earlier, and it’s an ongoing struggle to reel in the string of profanities on the tip of your tongue. You’re sensitive to every tilt of his head, flick of his tongue, and scratch of his stubble. Harry has many physical attributes that you’ve privately admired, but you never fully appreciated the tip of his nose until it rubbed over and over your clit while his tongue dips in and out of you. The feeling of his exhale between your thighs sends shivers down your spine; it’s as if he doesn’t want to come up for a proper breath, even though he’s kept at it for quite some time. You make the mistake of looking down and his eyes are closed, shadows dancing across his jaw and the hollow of his cheek as his head moves devotedly between your legs. His lips are puckered pink and shiny around your clit, sucking on you in gentle pulses; right when it gets to be a bit much, he eases off and licks you in thick stripes with the flat of his tongue. Harry peers up at you for a moment—his eyes are curious, vigilant, yet somehow unfazed behind the frames of his glasses. He squeezes the back of your thigh once with his hand as though to check on you, before leaning forward to nip just below your belly button. The blunt edge of his nail brushes your entrance. “Oh,” you breathe. “Okay?” he asks, gravely. You have to swallow before you can speak again. “Yes. Don’t stop.” One, then two of his fingers are moving inside of you. It’s now pointless to try and keep yourself from making a sound. Your body clenches around his knuckles and Harry curses against your stomach, so softly it sounds almost irreverent. “Come here,” you say, pulling him up by his shoulder. You slide back up to the pillows and he crawls up to you on the bed. The sight of Harry wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his cheeks glisten in the light ignites something deep inside you; there will be other nights for him to coax you all the way up, but you’d felt the firm grind of his hips on the couch, and it’s all you can think about right now. He starts to tug his shirt over his head, but the collar catches on his glasses and they dangle from one of his ears. “Smooth,” you observe. “Yes thank you,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head at himself. He quickly sets the frames aside on the nightstand before pulling you in for a longer kiss. You can taste yourself inside his mouth and press harder. Harry’s face is silky and damp from his chin up to his nose. Your hand slips from cupping his jaw to traveling down his chest, and you take your time tracing your fingertips along his abdomen and the inside of his thighs before beginning to massage him through his pants; by then, Harry has stopped kissing you completely, a low groan escaping him. You start to reach for his zip, but he takes over for you, yanking the button of his jeans through the hole and hastily pulling the zipper apart; you fumble a little rising to your knees to help shimmy them off. He doesn’t say anything, but you distinctly catch Harry hesitate for a beat before tugging down his briefs, kind of dodging your eyes. You wonder if this is what he meant when he said he hasn’t done this in awhile. His length slaps heavily against his stomach, flushed in a color identical to the high points of his cheeks. You begin to leave a trail of kisses from his neck to his belly button. “Um, hey.” His voice is gentle and uncertain but it startles you from above. You stop immediately. Harry is sitting up, shaking his head softly. “C’mere, I just want you.” He helps pull you up the bed again before rolling you on your back, positioning himself between your legs. “How are you feeling?” he asks. “Good.” You nod. “Better than good.” “You sure?” “Yeah.” Harry leaves one last peck on your cheek before leaning over to his bedside table and digging around in one of the drawers, returning with a box of condoms in hand. He pulls one out and holds the small foil square at arm’s length, struggling to read the back. You have to press your lips into a tight line to keep yourself from laughing. Harry pauses, narrowing his eyes at you pretending not to smile. “Don’t laugh at me.” “I’m not laughing.” “Yes you are.” You shake your head, covering your mouth with your hands. “No I’m not.” “Just want to double check that these are in date but now I can’t see without my bloody glasses.” “Give it to me.” You hold out your hand and examine the back before slipping into more laughter. “They’re fine.” After the condom is on, you kiss him again, gently tugging his bottom lip between your teeth. “Harry, please.” Harry shifts his weight between his knees a few times and you feel the head of his penis nudge where you want him most. Your heart is racing. Harry’s parted lips are hovering above yours as he pushes his hips forward. You squeeze your eyes shut and audibly strain against a gasp at the feeling of him inside of you… You two aren’t exactly a proportionate fit. Harry finds a rhythm that works for the both of you once you’ve visibly adjusted to the initial discomfort, and picks up the pace even more once the soft noises you’re making begin to fill his bedroom. He stifles a quiet groan when you arch your back. It’s almost too easy to finish as you reach down to touch yourself after all the work Harry had put in earlier; it doesn’t feel fair. His mouth is suddenly on your neck as he bites down into the soft where your throat meets your collar, as though he wants to hold you still while he fucks you. You’re trying your hardest on your own to bare your teeth against the near frantic sounds bubbling up in your throat as you reach your high. His hand slides to the back of your knee to spread your legs a bit wider and you suddenly feel him even deeper in your hips. Almost involuntarily, your hands snake around to press into Harry’s lower back in an effort to keep him exactly where he is; he slows the rhythm a little to let you ride it out. In the low light, you see him peering down at you in curiosity. You graze your hand down the side of his face and he turns his head to kiss your palm as you come down. “Get on your back,” you breathe. Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. You straddle him before grinding down on his lap to work yourself up a little before actually sinking down around him. He sighs at the exact moment you do, and you alternate between riding him in fast bursts and slow dips. Harry’s face tends to relax when you go slow; he watches you with almost mellow eyes and his hands are limp on your waist. When you pick up the pace, his face twists, his head writhes on the pillow, and his fingernails leave marks on your skin. The ends of his hair are damp and tapered as they stick to his forehead; his cheeks are rosy. Suddenly, Harry is reaching out, his hand fumbling blindly against the nightstand; you slow to a stop. “Everything okay?” you ask, breathless. “Yeah, yeah,” he reassures you. “Keep going, please.” “What do you need?” “Just… ” Harry lays back on the pillow, unfolding his glasses to push them on his face. “I wanna be able to see you.” “Oh… okay.” You wouldn’t have thought that under these circumstances, your heart could beat even faster. You carry on with a bit more confidence. Harry’s hands stay glued to your waist and every so often, he guides the way he wants you to move, but eventually, he places his palm flat against your stomach. His thumb reaches to rub soft circles around your clit. You’re gasping for breath; your arm shoots out to grasp the headboard for balance as he thrusts upward into you from the bed, and it’s enough to inspire your second orgasm. Harry leans up, muffling your choked pleas with a kiss before he sinks back to the bed. “Getting there,” he says, winded. Exhausted, you lean in close enough to ride him with your mouth hovering just above his, and pick up the pace. Less than a minute later, Harry lifts his head off the pillow slightly and you know he’s cumming when his furrowed brow and the slight snarl on his lips relax completely, along with every other muscle in his face. He opens his mouth soundlessly for a moment and you watch the vein in his neck swell. After bucking his hips upward into you a few times, Harry lets out a quiet, guttural, prolonged, “Oh,” before dropping his head back on the pillow. Your bodies lose steam together until you’re both completely still, trying to catch your breath. You brace your hands on the headboard so you don’t fall forward on top of him, feeling suddenly boneless. “That was...” Harry pants. All you can do is nod. He wraps an arm all the way around your waist as he gently rolls you onto your back to pull out. “Gonna deal with this,” he says, rolling the condom off. You just nod, content to watch him step through the doorway with absolutely no mind for his nudity. Sweat is starting to cool on your skin and your brain is still restarting after everything you and Harry just did. He shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him upon his return, making his way over to sit on your side of the bed with a glass of water in hand. You push yourself into a proper sitting position and it’s quiet for a minute as the two of you take each other in. It’s generally easy to figure out when Harry’s about to smile; his dimples sink into his cheeks first, and for some reason that small tell always chisels at your composure until you can’t help but mirror his expression. “Can I have some of that?” you ask. He raises the glass to his lips and keeps drinking, smiling against the brim. “I’m exhausted, let me have some!” Harry relents with a chuckle, leaning it to kiss you with a droplet of water at the corner of his mouth as he passes you the drink. It ends up being a longer kiss than you’d expected; you have to pull away so as to not lose your breath, then gulp down the rest of the water. You sink back into the pillow and straighten your leg in Harry’s lap with a deep breath as he strokes your bare ankle with his thumb. “Come lay with me.” You pat the mattress beside you, placing the empty glass on the bedside table. Harry crawls up the bed, settling into your side with his head on your chest and an arm draped over your waist, the way you wake up together sometimes. He hums softly before speaking. “You smell good.” You scoff. “That cannot be true.” Harry’s breath tickles the dewy skin of your breast when he laughs. “You do… You always smell good. I’ve always liked the perfume you wear.” You gently push him off you and roll to the side, propping your head up with a bent elbow. Harry simply turns his head to look at you while laying on his back. The ghost of a smile plays on his lips and he’s got a strange, half eager, half vulnerable look in his eye—like he might crack a joke or he might tell you he’s falling in love with you. “Please stay.” You reach up to comb a few rogue curls out of his face and press your answer against his mouth.

[marlahey]

​​under the same roof part five: just couldn’t wait 

a harry styles rpf part five of six ratings/warnings: teeth rotting fluff, a collection of small firsts, some of my personal favourite scenes notes: hello again! we’re combatting extreme stress and anxiety with productivity! I’ve applied for a new job to deal with hating my current one, made so much progress on skyward sword, and gotten over strep and the flu since you last saw me. it’s a lot, but so am I, lol. 

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part six (tbd)

• sunday, january 13th, 2019. 10:05 am •

“Nice place,” Harry calls to you from the kitchen. You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you.

Your place is essentially a two hundred square foot studio with a loveseat, wall desk, kitchenette, and a bare, open archway that leads to a room scarcely large enough to fit your queen bed. You have no full bath, no real living room, and no hallway; the flat kind of just starts right when you walk in. “Thanks,” you deadpan, hoisting your suitcase onto your bed before doubling back to the kitchen. “It’s just a shame all my plants are dead now.” You hear the sound of the fridge door shutting as you walk up to Harry. He’d insisted on bringing up a few containers of food and helping you with your bags, but it had sounded like an excuse to you. You’re certain you’ve never had someone so tall in your apartment before. Perhaps it’s just that your ceilings are lower than his, but Harry seems to dwarf every mundane marker of your life–– your shoes, your books, envelopes from the bank. It’s almost as though your life hadn’t been fundamentally altered in the past week, that your clutter and half-empty dish soap and creaky floorboards had just been waiting for you to return from an errand. But instead, your poor plants and the fine layer of dust –– and Harry, still standing there like he belongs –– are just a reminder that you can never just go back to whatever you had before. The corner of his mouth quirks up against his dimple as you reach for the strap of your duffle bag around his shoulder. He nods to the massive canvas above your bookcase. “I like that painting.” “India did it.” He crosses his arms, leaning back against your kitchen sink to take in the ornate petals, twisting branches, and shapeless streams of color. “She’s talented.” You join him, leaning on the countertop and stroking his arm. “Thanks for helping me carry everything, and for the leftovers. You really didn’t have to do all that.” “I know. Wanted to… Are you excited for Brighton?” “So excited,” you affirm. Harry tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You straighten his glasses for him. “What about you? Are you excited to get Sylvia again?” “Definitely.” “And you have her for two weeks now? Or… ” “Nah. I offered, but I think Annie wants to save her weeks up for later like a bloody punch card. Think I’m probably gonna have to take her for quite a while when they go on their honeymoon eventually.” “I see,” you chuckle. “When do you need to head out?” Harry glances at the time on his phone before stuffing it back into his pocket and pulling you into his chest. “Little over an hour,” he murmurs. You smile against each other’s mouths in a drowsy kiss. Harry’s arms snake around your waist; you stand between his knees and stay like that for a minute, kissing in your kitchen with a ray of sunlight warming the backs of your legs. You take a step backward after a beat, and tug Harry along by his arm. He almost trips over your tiny dining table. He bends down to kiss you again, but you push him onto the loveseat. (If you thought his size made him seem out of place before, he’s making your furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse now.) Harry just smiles up at you as though he’s happy to be led anywhere. “I just…” you begin, uncertain. “I want to feel something that isn’t… ” You shrug a little helplessly, waving a hand at the walls of your home. “I want to feel good here, again.” Harry doesn’t say anything, but then he nods. He reaches forward, hooking his fingertips around the back of your knee to pull you onto the couch with him. It feels less like a fall and more like being drawn in by a magnet. “I think,” Harry breathes against your neck, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss into the divot just below your ear, “I can help with that.” • tuesday, january 15th, 2019, 11:48pm • The wind bites at your face as you careen down the sidewalk without shutting the door of the cab behind you. A wild laugh rips through your chest. The pavement is harsh beneath your bare feet but you stretch your arms out like an airplane with a shoe in each hand because you’re safe and nothing hurts and if you have any responsibilities right now, you can’t recall a single one of them. India is calling your name, telling you to slow down through laughter. Your smile only grows.

“You’ve passed it, babe!” she yells. “It’s this one!” You whirl around; India is down the block, frantically pointing to a colorful triple-decker tucked into the line of identical houses like two mirrors facing one another. You scrunch your nose, trying to remember the photographs from the Airbnb website. Was it that one? “You sure?” you yell back to her. India nods, exaggerated, before doubling over with laughter. “Positive.” You stumble up the steps of the front porch together, losing it over absolutely nothing. She fumbles the keys. “Hurry, India.” You hop from foot to foot to stay warm, clad in nothing but an enormous sherpa jacket and the shortest dress you own to shield you from the cold. “Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee!” The front door swings open and the two of you both try to shove past each other around peals of laughter, taking the stairs by two in a scramble to reach the bathroom first. You know that you should try to be quieter for the neighbours, but the chances of that are fading by the minute. You’re the first to reach the toilet, but you’re pretty sure India had let you win. She bangs on the door the entire time you’re in there regardless. “I’m gonna piss myself!” she threatens from the hall. No part of you wants to see if she’s bluffing, so you quickly finish washing your hands before unlocking the door. Your best friend would have plowed right through you to the toilet, had you not zipped past her first, snatching your purse from the hallway floor on your way to the bedroom. The muted floral duvet bears a slight resemblance to the one from the Bates Motel but since it doesn’t seem to have any suspicious stains, you pounce onto the mattress and fish your cell phone out of your bag. You’ll get the spins sooner rather than later if you don’t sit upright, so you crawl up the bed until you’re propped up against the headboard, scrolling through your contact list until you find the one you’d been searching for. Your ears are icy from the chilled night air as you press your cell phone against your cheek, smiling a bit wickedly as it rings. You nestle into the soft lining of your jacket and it occurs to you too late that you have no idea what time it is “Hi.” Somehow Harry is laughing already as he answers.

“Hi… it’s me.” You hiccup. “I know, love.” “What’s so funny?” you demand. He’s still laughing.“You.” “You’re only saying that because I’m drunk.” “Absolutely why I said that.” You smile, then collapse on the pillows, leaning a cold cheek against your hand. “I jus’ wanted to hear your voice.” His laughter catches like it got stuck in his chest. You hear his breath through the phone in the long pause before he speaks.“You’re sweet. How’s Brighton?” “Good… Kinda cold.” “S’ what you get for going on holiday to the beach in January.” You roll to the side and hug an arm around your waist. “Shhh… ” “What did you get up to today then?” “We went to the pier, and the Lanes. Hit the shops. I bought a dress and some earrings, and… yeah. We had dinner at the Salt Room.” “Oh yeah? What’d you have?”  “Surf and turf.” “Sounds good.” “Mhm. Now we just got back from the Bar Broadway after some celebrating.” You hiccup. “Have you ever been there?” You’ll never tire of hearing Harry laugh “I have actually… How much did you celebrate?”

“Like, several rounds.” You ignore any lingering embarrassment over your slurred words in favour of letting yourself indulge in the slow, rounded melody of Harry’s voice. “Excellent… I’m really glad to hear you’ve been able to enjoy yourself.” “Thank you.” “You deserve it.” “Yeah,” you agree, sighing against the pillow and smiling to nobody. “How was your day?” “Very good. Sylvia and I FaceTimed with my mum for a while after dinner. We made mini pizzas from scratch—it was a fuckin’ mess. Then watched Shawn the Sheep. I sang a little to put her to bed… Now you’ve caught me going over a few exhibition proposals for the gallery, I’m afraid.” “Sorry, I’m probably distracting you.” Harry pauses. “S’not any different than usual.” “Is that a bad thing?” “Definitely not.” You allow for too much time to pass, listening to each other breathe through the phone. He speaks up again when you don’t. “Still there?” “I miss you,” you hum, almost inaudibly. Even though you’re several negronis in and haven’t seen him in a few days, you still can’t tell if the admission was warranted. “Miss you too.” His voice is soft. You haven’t been indoors long enough to justify feeling this warm all over. “Where are you right now?” “In the living room. On the couch.” “With a cuppa?” Harry snorts. “Obviously.” “What are you wearing?” You almost cut him off, surprising yourself. Just when you’re convinced that you’d taken it too far, Harry chuckles on the other end of the line. “I’m, um… I’ve got a tee shirt on, joggers,” he replies slowly. You’ve barely pictured it before he adds a hint more seriously, “black briefs.” Your lips part incrementally around an exhale. Another pause washes over the conversation like a tide. He speaks up again, though his voice has dropped a decibel. “What are you wearing?” His tone sobers you a little as you glance down to your bare legs. “A lot less than you.” Harry’s clipped sigh is audible through the phone. You wonder if his eyes are closed as well, and if he’s getting carried away thinking about you the same way you are about him. “Friday night was nice,” you comment. “It was… Thinking about it right now, actually.” “So am I,” you admit. “When can I see you again?” “When I get back.” “When’s that?” His voice is taut, as though he’s overcompensating his frustration with an effort to sound polite. “This Saturday, so…” You count on your fingers. “Four days from now.” Harry offers you a dry, poignant laugh. “S’ ages.” “I know. I’m not feeling very patient… ” You bite your lip, leaning on the intoxicated side of your brain for courage. “I might have to take care of myself later.” You had slept with him once—did you have the license to say something like that? Would you have to text him tomorrow morning to apologize for your loose lips? “Was half considering taking care of myself right now, actually.” Your mouth goes dry. He begins again, slowly. “How would you feel about that?” You swallow roughly, struggling to process this information. Harry wants to touch himself while he talks to you. You can practically see him alone on the couch in his living room, laptop tossed to the side, one hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants moving slowly, the other holding his phone to his ear, cheeks rosy and eyes hooded behind his glasses. Are you about to have phone sex? Is that what’s happening right now? “Love?” You’ve short circuited too long. “I’m—yes. I’d feel good,” you blurt, scared that you’d lost the moment in your flounder for the right response. “I’d feel good if you… took, um–” “Care of myself?” he finishes for you, like he’s trying not to laugh. You nod, mildly humiliated, before you remember he can’t see you. “Yes.” “Okay then.”  You shiver as his breathing changes in the stretch of silence, almost imperceptibly. “Is it nice?” you ask. Harry hums in confirmation. “You should keep talking.” “I wish I could… ” you trail off. “Tell me.” “I wish—” “Who are you talking to?” Your head whips around with the sound of India’s voice. She’s crouching in the doorway, rifling through her suitcase with a bag of toiletries and some pajamas in hand. Instead of responding, you simply prop yourself up on the bed and try not to look too much like you’ve been caught red-handed. A beat passes. You really should have answered her—gin tends to make you wear your heart on your sleeve. Her eyebrows slowly raise. “Who you talking to?” India repeats, in an utterly different lilt.

You hiccup. “Nobody.” Your best friend hurtles into motion, bounding across the room. You squeal and leap from the bed. India probably knows that wrestling your phone from your hand while you’ve both had a lot to drink is a bad idea, so she settles for grabbing the first pillow within reach and slinging it at your head. You duck—but only just—then hear your name, tinny and faint through your phone, and remember that Harry is still on the line. “Hi,” you gasp into your cell. “Sorry.” He sounds far too amused. “Should I call back?” “No no, it’s fine. I’m sorry, I should probably be getting to bed anyway… ” you reply, dodging another blow from the pillow. “But um—” You wave frantically at India for a moment of respite. “Can I call you tomorrow?” “No problem,” he laughs. “Looking forward to it.” “Me too. Night Harry,” you say around a giggle. India is still making eyes at you. “Goodnight love.” • saturday, january 26, 2019. 7:00 pm • “Just a sec!” you call, springing up from your vanity to answer the knock at your door. After adjusting the hem of your sweater, you glance at the small face of the slim, golden watch hung around your wrist. He’s right on the hour. With a hand on the doorknob, you rub your lips together to even out their shiny coat of red one last time and twist a stray piece of hair back into your updo before pulling the door open, and when you do, the world seems to stop for a beat.

Your eyes travel from Harry’s polished black boots to his pressed trousers, up the length of his dark overcoat that hangs open, and get stuck on the way that the buttons of his white dress shirt catch the light. You skim over the small bunch of snapdragons he’s clutching before finally meeting his gaze, but when he looks down at you with the beginning of a smile, your Hello gets caught on your tongue. You told yourself you weren’t going to choke, but for a minute you stand there in your doorway in silence, both politely trying to conceal that you’re beaming at each other. “Hi,” he says finally, taking you in as if for the very first time. “Hi.” “These are for you.” Harry holds out the pale blush flowers wrapped in brown paper. You brace the weight of the door with one hand to take them. “Oh thank you! That’s so thoughtful.” He begins to lean in for your cheek so you lay your hand on his shoulder just as it occurs to you to invite him inside. “Come on—” An orange blur streaks past your feet; Harry’s eyes go wide as he pulls back, attempting to block the doorway, but Chowder has already seen the gap of freedom between his legs. “Chowder!” You press the flowers back into Harry’s arms, squeezing past him before sprinting down the hall to wrangle your cat. “Sorry.” You return a little breathlessly. “He does this all the time.” Inside, Harry closes the door behind you and Chowder leaps from your arms back to the floor, scampering to your bedroom. “The flowers are lovely. I’m, um… I’m about ready to go—give me a minute to find a vase.” Do you even own a vase? “Sure,” he chuckles. “No rush.” You ransack your kitchen for anything that might do the trick and find a pitcher covered in flamingos wearing sunglasses; it’s only ever been used for blended margaritas but it’s all you have. So you unabashedly fill it with water, unwrap the flowers, and angle the makeshift centerpiece nicely on your tiny dining table. “I love them,” you affirm, smiling at him over your shoulder. Harry waits for you by the front door with his hands in his pockets, only softly chuckling at the spectacle. Your cheeks warm. “Okay, let me just… ” you trail off, zipping back to your bedroom to pin your second earring in. “You look beautiful,” he says, for once, not smiling. Your lips purse to the side to conceal your delight. “Thank you… You look fantastic, Harry.” He’s already pulling you in for a side hug and the peck that he missed greeting you with earlier. He’s shaved, and his skin feels smooth against yours. You place your hand gingerly on his jaw as he seals the kiss to your cheek. “Thanks,” he whispers by your ear, a little playfully, before kissing you again in the same spot. “Ready to go?” He raises his eyebrows at you, stepping away to place a hand on the doorknob. “Where’s the cat?” You huff a laugh. “We should be fine. He only makes a break for it if someone knocks first.” Harry holds the door for you as you wrap a scarf around your neck. “After you.” The usual mundanity of your walk to the tube station has vanished with Harry at your side. Your breath puffs out into the cold when you breathe, the wind nips at your cheeks, and you both have to hike your shoulders up a little to stay warm. The two of you share a small laugh upon stealing a glance over at each other tucked into your scarves. It’s refreshing to spend time with him somewhere besides the lift or his apartment—Harry had become so anchored to those places in your memory. Some part of you expected him to look different, somehow, but perhaps it’s you that’s different now. You’re finally free to admire him openly the way you want to, and you could certainly get used to that feeling. Harry had chosen the restaurant and you’d heard of it, but never been yourself. In fact, you’d only been to the Little Venice neighborhood by Regents Canal once or twice in all the years you’ve lived here. India had informed you that the restaurant was built into a charming, narrow ferryboat, and during dinner, it actually floats along through the Maida Hill tunnel, past Regents Park to Primrose Hill and Camden before returning to the starting point in the Paddington Arm of the canal. As you approach, you find yourself taking a small breath in upon seeing it for yourself—the vessel is painted a glossy, electric blue with orange and cream old-fashioned serif writing on the side: ABOARD THE PRINCE REGENT.Circular brass boat windows dot the exterior. On the starboard side facing the street, the slatted light of a cinema sign hoists the words, CANAL ST. LONDON SHELL CO into the air… It’s straight out of a Wes Anderson film, you swear. Harry smiles down at you over his shoulder; you quickly close your gaping mouth. “Does this work for you?” “I’m going to eat so much that I sink the boat and everyone with it.” “S’a good way to go… Here, watch your step.” Harry takes your hand as you hop from the concrete onto the Prince Regent, helping to steady you on the moving floor below. “Hello! Welcome aboard,” the hostess greets. “Hi.” Harry nods, glancing at you. “We have a reservation for two under Styles.” Your heart skips a beat at those words, and you have to look away as to suppress your smile. The hostess runs a fingertip down her clipboard before crossing out one of the names on the list. “For our eight o’clock dinner cruise” “That’s the one.” “Right this way.” You’re lead to a small, wooden table for two tucked into a corner of the dining room by the window, passing a comprehensive wine bar on your way. From the upper deck, you can see straight down to the Paddington Basin. The open deck on the bow of the ship is decorated with charming string lights and a long boxwood garland. You’ll have to go check it out at some point tonight, but frost gathers visibly around the edges of the windows of the Prince Regent and it makes you thankful to be indoors for now. There’s still ten minutes to spare before the cruise is meant to start, but it appears that you and Harry were some of the last passengers to arrive. He helps you shrug out of your jacket from behind as the warmth of the cabin seeps into your cheeks. A moment passes as the two of you settle into your seats, exchanging a somewhat ladened look. There is a cautious lift to the corner of his mouth. “Well,” Harry begins, once both of you have been still for a minute. “This is… new.” “It’s nice. I don’t know that I’d say that it’s new though.” “How’d you mean?” “I think… ” You play with a corner of your napkin. “I guess, to me, this doesn’t really feel that much like a first date.” There’s a faint crease between Harry’s brows when you look up at him. “It feels like we’ve done this before.”

“Ah,” he nods. “We’ve shared a few meals, I s’pose that’s fair… ” Harry pauses to push his glasses up his nose, frowning at the tablecloth. “Would you have wanted to do this differently?” “No, no,” you start to reach across the table for his hand but think better of it. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The light of the candle flickers between you, illuminating Harry’s face in gold as you pass under the Maida Hill tunnel and the room grows dim. You float through Lisson grove during appetizers, and he points out the London Zoo across from Primrose Hill. You’re lingering over the last of your gnocchi when the conversation drifts naturally back to Sylvia.  “It’s really nice,” you say, “that you’re so close.”  Harry’s eyes go thoughtful. “Did I ever tell you I had a stepdad?” 

The past tense doesn’t escape your notice, so you just shake your head.  “Robin. Great man. He passed away last year.” “Oh, I’m sorry Harry.” He shrugs, smiling with that sort of polite acceptance. Harry looks older, somehow, for just a second in the dim candlelight. Worldweary. “Thank you. I mean, his health hadn’t been great for a while so it was almost better than something unexpected, but with Sylvia gettin’ older and remembering things more I wish they’d have gotten to know each other better. Like my youthful blunder could’ve worked out a bit better.”  “What do you mean?” “Oh, you know...” He sips his wine. “We had her so young, so you’d think there’d be more of a window for her and Robin to connect and love each other. I’d been looking forward to it, those memories.”

You’d never thought of parenthood like that before and your heart is both warmed and a little broken. Harry asks about your grandparents and suddenly you’re lost in a conversation about your hometown, high school, and family. With Harry’s rapid fire of questions, you can’t even remember the last time you talked so much about yourself. It makes you wonder if he’d been holding back before. Harry’s eyes flash to your mouth every now and then, lingering there longer and longer every time you speak. He’s now wearing a delicate smirk, and you suspect he’s beginning to notice the effects of the wine as well. Feeling bold, you cross your legs so that the top of your foot grazes the inside of Harry’s calf beneath the table, and keep it there. He licks his lips once, his gaze darting to the window as the smile on his face spreads slowly. Too soon, the Prince Regent is turning around at Camden Market and doubling back to Little Venice where you’d started. After deciding to skip dessert together, Harry glances over your shoulder and asks if you’d like to take your glasses of wine out to the small deck at the front of the boat; you nod quickly, sliding into your coat.

“How’re you feeling about the trial and everything?” You stay tucked in his arms and say nothing until Harry finally meets your eyes. “That’s not for a long, long time. The man is in custody—that’s all that matters… The custodial sentence for stalking is over a year. I have a lot of evidence in my favor. And after the court date, I’ll never have to see his face again.” You believe your words, but you can tell Harry is more skeptical; you give him a smile that you hope is convincing, and eventually he sighs, scrunching his nose. A laugh bubbles up from your stomach. “What’s that face for?” Harry shrugs. “Just wish you didn’t have to go through all that.” “I feel that way too sometimes, but the prospect of holding him accountable… the thought that I could help protect the women after me who he would have done this to is too important. You know? And besides, if things hadn’t happened exactly the way they did, maybe we wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t that be kind of a shame?” “I s’pose.” You stare intently at one of the buttons on his jacket until you’re ready to speak. “I’m having a really nice time, Harry.” “So am I.” As you rest your head on his chest, Harry lifts his hand to stroke over the hair at the nape of your neck. You laugh once. “Is this how you imagined our first date would go? When you wanted to ask me out on the lift, back when you didn’t know my name?” Harry snorts. “Definitely not.” The boat rocks below you and Harry’s hold on you tightens for an instant. “Well, I don’t know, Harry. I guess I had thought about you, too, y’know before everything that happened with the police, and staying at yours… ” “Thought about me how?” “You know what I mean.” “Please say it.” You sigh a little. You’d said those words when the tables had been turned on this exact conversation. “I, um… I guess my impression of you from just seeing each other in the lift everyday… You seemed like a very kind and respectful person and you—y’know… You’re obviously very handsome. I mean, that part didn’t take me long to notice.” He just smiles.  ** On the walk to the tube station, Harry looks over at you and offers his elbow, keeping his hands in his pockets. You hook your hand around the bend of his arm, but after a minute, slide it down into his overcoat. Harry is smiling as you try to maneuver around each other, figuring out the best way for your fingers to fit together. You stay beside one another like that, holding hands in his pocket the entire tube ride back to North Clapham, and even in the quiet walk back to your building. He doesn’t break the clasp of your fingers until you’re stood beside each other in the lift alone as Harry reaches to press the eighth-floor button. You frown at him. “What are you doing?” He mirrors your perplexed frown. “Walking you home, of course.” You burst out in a laugh, rolling your eyes. “Oh my god. No you are not.” But after a moment’s hesitation, you bite your lip, then walk over to determinedly push the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “Why don’t you, um… why don’t you walk me to yours instead?” Harry’s eyes go a little wide, before a grin creeps slowly across his face like he’s trying to ease you into it. “Alright then.” Your lips are parted suddenly. Harry’s eyes are asking if he can kiss you so you close yours, and feel his mouth landing warm on yours moments later. It’s nice; the two of you are really beginning to learn how the other likes to be kissed, and every time you do this, you notice it’s gotten better and better. Without too much discussion you fall into bed, an unhurried undressing into a spare t-shirt and boxer shorts.  The lack of expectation makes your chest warm. It’s quiet between you for a minute but eventually the rounded tortoiseshell frames in Harry’s hand catching your eye. You take them from his limp hold, and try them on. “Wow. You are blind.” “Don’t make fun.” Harry lifts his head to look at you and snorts. “You look ridiculous.” There’s a book on his nightstand so you pick it up and inspect the cover. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. You notice that a lot of the pages are dog-eared, but the words on the one that you randomly flip to are completely out of focus. “Love this book…” Harry comments, then reaches up to take it from you, sifting through a few pages. “Have you read it before?” You shake your head so he goes on. “You should borrow it. Last time I picked it up I was actually thinking you’d really like it.” “Really? What makes you say that?” “Well you’ve always got a different book on the lift. And s’ just really meditative and vivid and interesting, like, easy to get hooked on. Plus Tokyo in the sixties is kinda neat to read about… ” He’s engrossed in a chapter, so he doesn’t notice that you’re a little taken back by the idea of Harry thinking about you while you’re not around, noticing things that remind him of you, and remembering things that he thinks you would like. He chuckles and plucks his glasses off your face before putting them on himself. “Can I read you this one bit?” You nod quickly. Harry clears his throat. “I really like you, Midori. A lot.” “How much is a lot?” “Like a spring bear,” I said. “A spring bear?” Midori looked up again. “What’s that all about? A spring bear.” “You’re walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring, and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, ‘Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?’ So you and the bear cub spend the whole day in each other’s arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh?” “Yeah. Really nice.” “That’s how much I like you.” There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there when he had started reading. You want to make a joke and ask Harry if he likes you like a spring bear but the words are trapped on your tongue and you think better of it. He turns his head to meet your gaze and hands the book back to you. “Take it.” “Thank you… I’ll have to tell you what I think when I finish it.” Harry’s eyes light up and he’s taking his glasses off again to lean in, pressing the words, “please do,” against your lips. • saturday, february 9th, 2019, 2:22 pm • “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to Sylvia and Harry… Happy birthday to you!” The flash of a camera illuminates Sylvia’s face as her cheeks puff out in front of her block candle, shaped like the number three, until the flame goes out in a whoosh. You cheer along with the parents and children alike, huddled in Annie and AJ’s dining room. Harry is sat at the end of the table in a cone hat with his daughter in his lap, holding her sides as she leans over to blow on the lingering trail of smoke. He pulls her into his chest before peppering kisses all over her forehead and cheek as she squirms from his hold. Annie tries to snap a few more photos as AJ hurries to collect the cake, knife, and server, disappearing into the kitchen before returning a minute later wielding several plates with a slice on each. Someone turns the stereo on again once the cake and ice cream is passed out. There’s only three other little ones here besides Sylvia and one of them is Poppy, the daughter of the woman named Bridget who lives on the first floor and watches over Sylvia while Harry is at work. The other two are children of family friends. Someone is bouncing an infant on their hip. There’s blue frosting and sprinkles all over Sylvia’s face and arms up to her elbows. One of the children starts to cry. The whole scene is another interesting little peek into parenthood for you. Harry catches your eyes from across the room with a smile, and a vaguely resigned eye roll which you return with a wink. You hadn’t seen much of him this afternoon; he’d been too busy entertaining the guests and the children, tidying up the mess of leftover wrapping paper, orchestrating pin the tail on the donkey, and recovering from when Sylvia whacked him in the groin with the piñata stick by accident. All of the moms—and admittedly one of the dads—are practically salivating over him and you’ve have to stifle your laughter all afternoon because of it. AJ appears at your side with a light hand on your shoulder as you’re watching Harry pass Sylvia off to Annie before slipping off to the kitchen. “Would you like a piece?” “Sure,” you chuckle, taking the plate from her before raking your fork through the frosting. You’d gotten a corner slice with most of Big Bird’s stocky orange leg. “It’s very festive.” “Isn’t it?” AJ takes a bite from her own plate, covering her mouth before speaking again. “Shawn the Sheep seems to be her latest obsession, but it’s outlasted rocketships and firetrucks so I guess we’ll see… ” she trails off before elbowing your side gently. “A few of the adults are sticking around after bedtime for some drinks and I’m sure Harry would love if you joined. I’ve just made a fresh batch of sangria.” “Ooh… I’d love to.” “Perfect.” The two of you eat beside each other awhile, watching the party from the corner of the room. You lick the sugar off your lips, hesitating for a moment before venturing onto a topic you’ve been meaning to bring up. “I’ll admit, I was a little anxious for Harry to tell you and Annie that he and I have been, um… sort of seeing each other, I guess.” AJ gives you an inquisitive look over your slices of cake, so you go on with a shrug. “I mean, I was kind of a captive in his apartment for a week in crisis and now we’re like… dating. It’s a little odd.” AJ begins to laugh, so hard that she has to squeeze her eyes shut and bring a hand to her chest, and you can’t help but crack a smile yourself. “I’m serious!” you defend. “Oh,” she sighs, eventually. “We’ve known about you long before any of that happened.” Your head jerks back a little in disbelief. “What?” AJ nods slowly, the incredulous look on her face probably rivaling yours. “He texted us on New Year’s Eve to tell us he’d kissed you in the lift.” Your eyes widen as she speaks around another bite. “You think Annie and I haven’t been hearing about the gorgeous young woman who rides the lift with him since last year?” “You’re kidding me!” It comes out as a harsh whisper. “I’m not.” She shakes her head. “He told us when you sewed the loose eye back on her toy. For a while he couldn’t figure you out. It was sweet. I reckon Annie picked up on the fact that Harry fancied you before he even did.” “Oh my god,” you breathe. At that moment, Harry reappears from the kitchen, glancing over at you. You’re shaking your head at him but he’s simply smiling in oblivion. His lips move silently around the word “alright?” You give him a thumbs up before slipping into laughter again with AJ, and Harry’s expression morphs into one of suspicion. He sidesteps to Annie, placing a hand on her shoulder. Sylvia swats her father away as he pinches her cheek, doting her with his eyes. “And just so you know… ” AJ turns to you with a fading smile, gesturing between Sylvia and you, “there are exactly two people in the world I have ever seen him look at like that.” • friday, may 17th, 2019. 4:31pm • You roll your shoulders back and let your hair loose from the tight knot atop your head as you emerge from the lecture hall—you’ve just written your first midterm of the season. It’s arguably your most rigorous course at the moment, so you’re glad to have it out of the way. Your hand flits to your eyes to block the light of day as you fish your phone from your bag to text India that you finished early, but a frown settles on your brow. You have three missed calls from Harry. “Hi, love.” He picks up on the first ring; you pinch your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you dig around for your Oyster card. “Hey, is everything okay?” “Yeah, s’alright.” Harry’s words are rushed, overlapping each other even more than usual. “I was actually wondering if you could—wait! Your exam. How’d it go?” You melt into a small smile. “I feel good about it. I revised more than I needed to, honestly.” “Can’t say I’m surprised. We’ll have to celebrate later.” Your eyes flash to the ground in your walk to Euston station as your cheeks warm just a hint. “I hope so.” “I was actually wondering if I could ask a favor of you.” “Yeah, what do you need?” “I’m in a bit of a pinch at the gallery and I need to stay later than I expected to wrap some things up here and um… I won’t be home for at least another hour, so I can’t pick up Sylvia from Bridget’s on time—and Bridget, like, cannot stay past five today because her son’s in a school performance. Annie and AJ also can’t get out of work—I tried them already. So, do you think… I mean, Sylvia knows you and she just needs someone to entertain her for a little while ‘til I’m off. Shouldn’t be long.” “Oh.” Your heart jumps a little. “Are… are you—do you mind?” “No of course not! Does, um… Does Bridget know I exist?” Harry laughs once. “I’ve mentioned somethin’ like you, yeah. I’ll ring her now and let her know you’re coming instead.” “Okay, sure. Do I have to pay her? Or… ” “No, no, you don’t have to worry about that. We do a monthly invoice. Just bring Sylvia upstairs and give her, like, four Maltesers—tell her Daddy’s gonna be home soon. I’ll speak with her on the phone if she likes.” You nod. “Okay, I can do that.” “You mean it? You don’t mind?” “Of course I don’t mind.” Harry makes some sort of strangled noise of rejoice and relief all at once; you chuckle on your end of the phone. “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver… I owe you one. ” “You know, I’m gonna hold you to that… ” You hope the suggestive lilt of your voice conveys how exactly you’d like Harry to repay you. Harry’s voice is lower and a little husky when he speaks again, after a pause. “I’m at work, love.” “I’ll see you tonight,” you bid through a laugh. “See you.” On the tube, your knee bounces all the way to the Clapham North stop; the prospect of watching over Sylvia exhilarates you unexpectedly. In your head, you go over how you’ll greet her. You fondly call her smile to memory and imagine her shuffling up to you for a shy hug. Spending alone time with Harry’s daughter was never a fantasy you’d spent much time dwelling on, but now that the opportunity lays before you, you’re overcome with an anxious hope that it goes well. You hurry to catch the walk lights on every street corner, trotting through traffic and pedestrians before making a beeline through the lobby doors over to the lift. Your phone buzzes from inside of your jacket. Harry Styles. 4:59 PM. Bridget’s flat is 1D, just knock lightly in case anyone’s still napping. Thanks again. x You. 4:59 PM. Will do. Bridget’s flat is easy enough to find on the first floor, and you can tell from where you stand in the hallway that there’s certainly no napping going on inside. The sound of children’s laughter seeps through the door and your first knock goes unanswered for a minute. You try again and hear footsteps. “Hello!” You’re greeted by a tall woman with long red hair and freckles as she reaches out for a handshake. You introduce yourself but she seems to already know who you are. “I’m Bridget. Lovely to meet you… Harry’s mentioned he was seeing someone, but it’s nice to finally see you in person!” “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, too.” A smile spreads naturally on your face as she shakes your hand with vigor. “Come in, please! I’m just on my way out, actually, I’ve got to run to make my son’s play. I would stay longer but he’s the lead so I can’t miss the opening number.” “Of course, that’s very exciting.” Children’s laughter and the patter of tiny footsteps echo throughout the flat as you step into the entryway. “The children are around here somewhere. I’m not sure if Harry’s told you but I have a daughter about Sylvia’s age and I watch them while he and my husband are at work.” “That works out nicely.” “It does, doesn’t it?” Bridget grins at you, shrugging into her trench coat. “Poppy! Sylvia! Come and get your things, darlings, we haven’t got all day.” “Daddy!” You recognize Sylvia’s voice as two little girls come speeding around the corner. She skids to a stop at the sight of you; her face falls and you try not to take it personally. You recognize Poppy from Sylvia’s birthday party, and she seems unphased by the presence of a stranger in her doorway. She is a tiny thing with platinum blonde hair and stormy grey eyes. It doesn’t occur to you that you’ve never seen Sylvia in a dress until you’re looking at another toddler stood beside her in a green checkered one. Harry’s child, on the other hand, looks a little less put together; dirt is smudged by her hairline and across one of her rosy round cheeks, and the knees of her tights are charcoal black. Bridget helps Poppy into a Nordic sweater before turning to face Sylvia. “Sylvia, darling,” she starts gently. “Do you remember how I told you that Daddy’s friend was going to pick you up, but that he was going to meet you at home later?” Sylvia’s curls bounce as she nods. Her big, hazel brown eyes flash you up and down, a bit removed. “Hi, Sylvia.” You wave your fingers at her, and notice the dimples sink into her cheeks the way Harry’s do when he’s fighting laughter. She smiles, twisting her big toe into the ground. It’s small, but it’s a victory. “Her wellies and knapsack are there.” Bridget nods to a familiar backpack with the initials, S.S. on the straps, along with a pair of green frog rain boots by the door, covered in mud. You crouch down to collect them and feel the tiniest ounce of pressure on your shoulder. In surprise, you turn your head to find that Sylvia has walked over and is holding onto you for balance with a foot nonchalantly in the air. You’re quick to tuck her feet into the frog boots before helping her into the world’s smallest puffer jacket, then hesitate; you frown, gingerly taking Sylvia’s hands in yours and flipping them over. Even when spread flat, her fingertips don’t quite reach to the edges of your palm. Her teeny fingernails have black beneath them, and her warm, golden skin is covered in a sheen of dust. “Sorry about that.” You glance over to the sound of Bridget’s voice as you rise to a stand. “We made a trip to the zoo today. Sylvia tends to get a little adventurous.” “I see,” you chuckle. “Well, I’m afraid we must be off, now.” Bridget is brushing past you to the door with Poppy on her hip. You move out of her way and grab Sylvia’s backpack off the floor before heading down the hall with everyone. Poppy makes faces at Sylvia and the pair laugh in secret as you all wait for the lift. “I hope your son does well tonight.” “Thank you! I’m sure he’ll be fine… he’s a ham, a bit like this one.” Bridget nods down to Sylvia with warmth in her smile as you all pile on after the ding. The lift stops at the ground floor and you say your goodbyes as Poppy and Bridget step out into the lobby. It’s suddenly very quiet between you and Sylvia as the doors slide shut. You press the sixth-floor button, then jump a little when you feel a tiny hand wrap around your index finger, glancing to the reflection of the lift doors to find that Sylvia is clinging on to you mid-yawn, completely unaffected. Warmth floods your chest as you smile tightly and try to remain collected. Sylvia holds your hand all the way to the door of Harry’s flat. The two of you still haven’t exchanged a word besides hi. Harry had never asked you to return his spare key after your week together, and you’ve sort of made it a habit of keeping it on your person. It’s difficult wiggling it into the deadbolt and twisting the doorknob with one hand but you desperately don’t want to let go of Sylvia. Inside, she kicks off her boots and blinks up at you. You swallow, dropping your school bag on the chest table, then quickly jog over to the nursery to hang up Sylvia’s backpack, gasping as you pivot to head back to the entryway—she had followed right behind you and you almost trip over her outside of her room. You laugh with a hand to your chest before kneeling to meet her at eye level. “Sylvia, do you want something to eat?” She smiles at her feet, crossing her arms and twisting her body before nodding her head. You rise and walk a little slower to the kitchen with Sylvia at your heels. The Maltesers are kept on the top shelf of the goodies cabinet; you nab the box and pour four into your hand as instructed. She’s recently graduated from using a high chair, so you hand her the treat in a small, plastic dinosaur-shaped bowl, thinking she’d lead you to the dining table. Instead, she pops the first malt ball into her mouth right away, seemingly content with sitting on the kitchen floor. You join her and don’t question it. Sylvia scoots backward on the tiles to the cabinet opposite you with her legs crisscrossed. You mirror her position, leaning back against the fridge. She stares at you in fascination, crunching softly. Her mouth moves like his. The apples of her cheeks push up against her eyes in the corners like his. Her chin and cheeks carry her expressions like his do. It’s an eerie sort of déjà vu, sitting across from her, eating a meal in the kitchen without a table. You feel like you know her a little better simply because you’ve grown familiar with many of her father’s expressive tells, which she shares. You hoist yourself up to your feet and fill a sippy cup with water, placing it lightly on the floor next to her. She sets aside the empty dinosaur bowl and drinks from the bottle with both hands. When that’s gone too, she belches softly and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. The two of you sit in silence… This isn’t exactly going as well as you’d anticipated. “Do you want to speak to Daddy? On the phone?” you offer. “He’s coming home soon, I promise.” She looks to be contemplating this for a moment, but eventually shakes her head. “Okay… ” you begin cautiously, eyeing the streak of dried mud on her forehead. “Would you like to take a bath?” Sylvia’s eyes twinkle as a grin spreads across her face. She nods, and relief washes over you. You cannot help but mirror her smile as you lead her to the bathroom, perching on the rim of the tub and rolling up your sleeves to run the faucet. All of Sylvia’s toys have returned to their rightful place in the shower, and you take a moment while the water is rising to shoot a quick text to Harry. You. 5:21 PM. Got her. She’s filthy so I’m running a bath. Harry Styles. 5:22 PM. Christ, of course she is… Thanks. Harry Styles. 5:25 PM. Can’t wait to “owe” you later. x The message sends a chill down your spine. It’s suspiciously quiet behind you, and you turn around to find Sylvia with her arms raised straight above her head, watching you with a confused frown. “Right, of course.” You turn to face her, shaking your head at yourself as you help her out of her shirt. After you triple check to make sure the temperature is just right, Sylvia hops in with a splash when she’s ready and flashes you a characteristically mischievous smile. She immediately goes for the water wheel and starts talking to herself, lining the ducks on the rim of the tub in groups. From what you gather, the ducks all take turns riding in the plastic boat over to the water wheel to play. Each duck family has two moms and one dad. For a minute you lean your cheek in your hand with an elbow resting over the edge of the tub as you let her play, but after a while, when you notice that the dirt on her forehead hasn’t budged, you fix your posture and gently pull her toward you. “Come here, sweetheart, let’s get you clean.” You use a big, plastic cup to pour water over her as you sponge at the mud on her face. One by one, you scrub her tiny fingernails with soap until they’re spotless, which takes longer than you would have imagined. Sylvia tilts her head back and squeezes her eyes shut tightly as you to soak her dark curls, then pump some baby shampoo into your hand. It’s maternal and intimate and strangely healing to take care of a child like this. How many years has it been since you babysat for that couple down the block from where you grew up? You can’t remember. But this… tenderly smoothing your hands over this little girl’s hair—being actually, personally invested in making sure she’s clean and safe and happy—feels eons away from getting paid to read a few bedtime stories to kids whose names have slipped your memory by now. There’s a lot you would do for Harry, but there’s a lot you would do for his daughter, too. Your hands freeze in place on top of her head as the sound of your name in Sylvia’s mouth stuns you. Up until this point, you frankly weren’t sure if she could say it. You look down at her; her eyes are curious and gazing up at you. “How come you and Daddy spend so much time together?” The air leaves your lungs. After a brief pause, you will your fingertips to keep moving in circles on her head. “Your Daddy and I… are friends,” you begin steadily. “Kind of like Bert and Ernie.” “Oh you’re in love?” she asks. Again, remarkably blunt and unaffected. “No, no, no, honey. Um… ” Perhaps Bert and Ernie weren’t the best anecdote to explain a platonic relationship to a toddler with gay parents. You fill the cup again and pour water over her hair while untangling her curls with your fingers. She leans back into your hand. “Daddy and I care about each other… and spending time together makes us both very happy.” It’s quiet for a long, long while as you listen to the small waves slosh against the walls of the tub. You haven’t settled on what you’d said to her. There’s something more. And even though she’s three, and she isn’t going to remember, you will remember, and you know suddenly that you have to get the words out. “And I want you to know, Sylvia, that you’re also special and important to me. I care about you very, very much.” She says nothing more on the subject and neither do you. “The water’s getting a bit chilly. How about we hop out and play some music in the kitchen while we wait for Daddy? Would you like that?” “Okay.” Sylvia all but leaps over your shoulder out of the tub, bringing a tidal wave of water with her. You’re half afraid she’ll slip but she lands on the bathmat with agility and waits for you by the towels. You sit on the toilet to help dry her off before blanketing her in the soft yellow terry cloth of her bathrobe. “Quack, quack.” You wink at her, adjusting the big orange bill above her head and earning a giggle that doubles her over. Just as you’re about to stand, Sylvia leans toward you with her arms outstretched. You’re confused for a moment and briefly think she might want you to lift her, but instead, she hooks her arms around your neck for a hug. “Oh, thank you,” you say around a laugh, rubbing her back over the soft towel. Her hair is still wet and presses a damp spot into the shoulder of your shirt. She drops her arms and quickly turns away from you to the door, turning the handle on her tiptoes and slipping into the hallway on her own. You hear her scream, “Daddy!” followed by the sound of quick, tiny footsteps. You frown, checking to confirm that you had no new messages on your phone before stepping out into the hall. Sure enough, Harry is there in the kitchen with Sylvia scooped up in his arms, wearing a plaid red and white suit, and soft white dress shirt. Produce, a packet of rice, and a slow cooker are laid out on the counter, but the stereo isn’t turned on. “Hi.” You smile at him but it comes out like a question. “Hi.” His voice is quiet and something is off about the way he’s looking at you, yielding and wistful and unbelievably fond. You can feel the confusion painted on your face. “I didn’t hear you come in.” “Haven’t been here long.” Harry shifts Sylvia to his other hip, smiling at you softly. “Didn’t wanna interrupt bath time.” “Ah. How was work?” You lean against a wall in the hallway. “It was good, yeah,” he says. His eyes take you in, almost timidly from behind his glasses, and his voice maintains a strange air of sentimentality… Whatever it was, you could ask him about it some other time. “Well I should get going.” You rub your eyes in a half stretch. “I’m exhausted after today.” Harry’s shoulders visibly drop. “I can’t interest you in dinner?” “I’m alright, thanks,” you smile, heading for the entryway to sling your school bag around your shoulder. “I need to clean out the fridge and go to bed on the early side tonight.” “Alright. Thank you again for today… I still get to owe you later, yeah?” Harry quirks an eyebrow; you laugh once. “Always,” you call over your shoulder with your hand on the doorknob. “Say bye bye, Sylvia!” His voice immediately switches to the high tone he uses only with her. “Bye bye!” Sylvia waves at you. “Bye!” you respond, ecstatic that this is the first time she hasn’t been too shy to actually say something when Harry had asked her to. In the lift, the doors don’t even get the chance to ding on the eighth floor before your phone vibrates with an incoming text from Harry. Harry Styles. 6:11 PM. So which one of us is Bert? • saturday, july 21, 2019, 12:51 pm • When you return from your three week homecoming in New York, Harry’s waiting for you in  Gatwick’s arrivals hall. It takes concentrated effort not to run sailing into his arms like some fictional nearly lost lover. You settle for a kiss that leaves you a little dizzy and a breathless, “I told you you didn’t have to come get me!” He just shrugs, taking your suitcase handle before you can object and wrapping his arm around your waist. “Wanted to. Just couldn’t wait.” I love you. You’ve been thinking it for weeks now. But every time it nearly comes out of your mouth, you find yourself reeling it back. Is it too much? Is it too soon? Harry steers you towards the National Rail trains headed back to London. There’s something so relieving about just tapping your contactless card to pass through the gate. As much as you missed your family and friends stateside, London is home now too, more than you ever realised before. The platform announces a mere three minute wait. You couldn’t have timed it better. “I know it’s probably dumb to say after sitting on a plane for five hours, but my legs are killing me.” Harry laughs lightly as you haul yourselves onto the train. “M just glad I’ve never had to queue up in that international border control. I can’t believe it took you almost two hours.” “Yeah yeah, rub it in British boy.” He just snorts and turns to kiss the side of your head, like a sympathy. Clapham Junction is the second stop on this route, but it’s a full thirty minutes away. The train is packed to the brim so you can only lean wearily into Harry as you stand there and sway, trying not to fall over all the luggage. You grab an Uber from the Junction. It’s just short enough of a trip that you can’t doze off, and you’re barely inside before Harry’s pressing you up against the closed door of your flat. Your backpack slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a thump. “Don’t--” you start shakily, and Harry lifts his lips from the curve of your shoulder. “Don’t let me sleep too much, okay? Otherwise the jetlag’s gonna mess me up for a week.” He laughs a little like he’s trying not to. “Oh trust me love,” he says, sliding down your body to kneel between your legs. His warm hands anchor your hips; a delicious shiver zips up your spine. “I don’t plan on it.” ** Okay so seven thirty in the morning isn’t exactly a lie in, as Harry calls it, but it’s better than wasting the day away. You pry yourself from his grip and tiptoe out to your forgotten suitcase and bag. The floor creaks as Harry comes out looking for you soon after. “You’re unpackin’ now?” “If I don’t do it now, this suitcase is gonna sit here for two weeks.” You’re half-expecting that he’ll try to pull you back to bed, but Harry just folds himself down onto the floor, hooking his chin over your shoulder. His fingers slide greedily beneath your too-big t-shirt, chasing the warmth of your skin. “What’s a...Reese’s?” Harry squints in the low light and you laugh, plucking the candy from his hand. “Like a chocolate peanut butter thing. I promised AJ I’d bring her some back.” From under your raincoat you unearth a small stack of books, their golden spines shimmering a little, and a familiar, grinning red face. “Wait.” Harry slides around you, reaching into your suitcase to pull out Elmo. He looks so much smaller in Harry’s grip, comically soft against the square edges of the signet ring against his belly. “Isn’t this–” “Elmo!” You grin to match your childhood companion. “My mom made me go through a bunch of boxes of stuff while I was home and I thought Sylvia might enjoy–oh, wait!” Harry’s jaw has gone a little slack. He doesn’t move as you jump to your feet and dig into the pocket of your coat, pulling out a napkin with a triumphant flourish. “What’s this?” Harry asks as you hand it to him. “I was on the plane and thinking about what AJ said at Sylvia’s birthday about her different interests, you know how kids are, getting obsessed with different things for months at a time? I figured if she likes Sesame Street she might like a bunch of the things I used to watch.” “Arthur, the Magic School Bus, Clifford the Big Red Dog, the Bearenstein Bears, Bear in the Big Blue House.” Harry’s lips twitch around a smile like he doesn’t want to offend you. “Sounds like we should take her to the zoo, love.” “Oh my god, Zoboomafoo!” “Gesundheit.” “No, Harry–” You struggle around a laugh– “I mean yes, let’s please take her to the zoo. But Zoboomafoo was this show my siblings and I were totally obsessed with. These two brothers are wildlife experts and friends with this lemur from Madagascar and–” “I love you.” Your nostalgia stops abruptly. Harry looks a little silly with Elmo in one hand and a napkin full of scribbles in the other, but he’s staring up at you with a kind of amazement that leaves you feeling oddly bare and vulnerable. “What?” It comes out like a whisper. Harry blinks owlishly, as though he’s taken aback by his own admission. He drops what he’s holding and pulls you back down to the floor. It feels like you float there. Harry’s eyes are dark and serious when he brushes the hair falling out of your lopsided ponytail away from your face. He says it again. “I love you.” You have no idea what your face is doing because alarm creeps into his expression. “You don’t have to say any–” “I love you too.” You can hardly get the words out before you're practically pushing Harry over in your haste to get your lips on his. “God, I love you too.” He smiles widely against your mouth. “Glad we agree.” You don’t finish unpacking. You don’t go back to sleep, either.

[marlahey]

under the same roof part three: all the time you need

a harry styles rpf part three of six written by annie and aj (marlahey and formerly harryonstage) ratings/warnings: disaster gays, endangered ovaries from dad!harry, women aggressively supporting women notes: enter the rest of harry’s family unit! in case anyone’s curious, annie tells sylvia to give her dad a kiss in vietnamese, to which he responds, good girl. before anyone comes for me, there will be plenty more opportunities for bed-sharing to come. side note: aj always pictured olivia coleman as officer warren.  masterlist | part one | part two | part four (21.12.20)

............................................... • saturday, 5th january 9:18 am • The second time you’re roused from sleep, sunlight illuminates Harry’s room. You lift your head, squinting, but more quickly you recognize where you are.

Harry is nowhere in sight, but a fresh glass of water is within reach on the nightstand, and a cardigan knitted with primary-colored patches lies folded at the foot of the bed. After slipping your arms through the loose sleeves, you take a few gulps of water and make sure to shut his bedroom door quietly on your way out. You hadn’t spent much time in the living room as per Officer Warren’s instructions to avoid the windows, but you can see into it from the hall. And since there’s still no sign of Harry, you take a minute to discreetly look around at the place he and his daughter call home. His flat is obviously larger than yours—he has two bedrooms versus one—but the morning light seems to stretch the space even further, like an open armed welcome. The atmosphere bustles with a little dose of chaos. Two brimming bookshelves span one wall of the living room, and plants line the windowsills. A half-sized Christmas tree stands off in the corner, wrapped in twinkly lights and strings of popcorn. A white fender guitar decorated with various stickers stands with a speaker beside the couch, and records tile the wall behind it: Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, The Stones, The Cars, Hello I’m Dolly.  There is ample evidence that a child lives here, too. The walls are dotted with drawings in watercolor, crayon, and sparkles. You can see pieces of Lego strewn out on the carpet; they must be from that towering box Harry had towed into the lift a week before Christmas. A small smile tugs at your lips as you follow the smell of espresso into the kitchen. You find Harry leaning against the counter looking contemplative, holding aloft a cup of coffee that he seems to have forgotten about. He’s wearing the same shirt he’d slept in, but thrown on a pair of joggers. You bid a quiet, “Good morning.” He inhales sharply as his head whips toward you, his drink sloshing over the edge of his mug slightly. “Jesus, sorry,” he laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. You watch as he wets a dishrag and cleans the small mess. “Not really used to company my age.” “Oh… Sorry.” “S’alright.” His voice is covered in sleep; it almost sounds like he has a cold. “Coffee?” You hum appreciatively. “Love some.” “Were you able to get some sleep?” he asks, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “Enough, yeah.” All you can think about is waking up locked in his embrace, on the still-dark cusp of sunrise. “Thank you for letting me, um…” “Course. Cream?” “That’s great, thanks.” Harry nods over his shoulder towards the bedroom. “It help at all?” How are you supposed to answer that? “The real bed?” he clarifies, like it is at all necessary.  You listen to the spoon clink rhythmically against the ceramic, and settle on “I think so,” as noncommittally as possible. “How did you sleep?” “Very well.” In passing you your mug, Harry catches your eyes for the first time today in a way that feels like not an accident. “More importantly, how are you feeling about everything else?” You shrug, eyes glued to the cream swirling in your coffee. “Better, a little.” “That’s good.” “What about you?” you ask. “You’ve kinda been through the wringer, yourself.” “I’m good, yeah.” Harry pushes up his glasses. “I was thinking—if you don’t mind—I’d like to come with you to the police department this morning.”  “No, no, Harry.” You wave away the offer. “Don’t worry about that.” “No, really. It might make more sense. I saw him in the hall last night, and I was with you in the lift. They might need to ask some questions of both of us.” You consider this a moment. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” “I don’t have to,” Harry counters. “I want to. I want you to, y’know… ” he trails off. “I want them to get this guy.” You blink at him. There’s a strange feeling in knowing that Harry has clearly thought about your wellbeing beyond the night that you’ve effectively been trapped in his flat. Regardless, it’s too early for a battle of wills, and he has a point. You slouch against the fridge. “Alright. Well… I still have India’s car so I can drive us,” you concede. A smile lights Harry’s face. Suddenly your stomach rumbles so powerfully and for so long that it interrupts the conversation. You cover a small, mortified laugh with both hands as Harry’s eyebrows raise. “Well,” he begins, exaggerated. “Let’s take care of that… You take the first turn in the bathroom, I’ll fix us some breakfast.” “You sure?” “Go ahead.” He grabs a skillet from the drying rack, turning on one of the burners. “Thank you, Harry.” “It’s no problem.” You wash your face with something you find above the sink and brush your teeth on auto-pilot before considering your bundle of clothes from the night before. Your cardigan lays at the top of the stack. Four of your fingers fit through the gaping hole in its collar, and dirt covers one of the sleeves. You hadn’t forgotten about the shape it was in last night, but you didn’t consider it a problem until now, as you hold it up in front of you by the shoulders, frowning. You try to tame your hair with a purple, sparkly brush to no avail, so you take a quick look around to see if Sylvia has any spare barrettes or pins. Thankfully there’s a single hair tie floating in the bottom of your purse. You shrug back into Harry’s patchwork sweater—oddly comforting in how fully it swallows your shoulders and hands—and slip back out to the kitchen, where Harry plates grilled tomatoes and bacon. “We’re about ready to eat.” Harry turns the stovetop down to a simmer as the toaster pops. “How do you take your eggs?” “Sunny side up, please.”  He salutes you with his spatula, attention already returned to the pan.  “Can I help with anything?” Harry nods to a drawer. “Yeah can you pass us a couple napkins from just there? I’ll be right back,” he rushes, already halfway out of the kitchen. You pull a few paper napkins from their packet as he returns with two chairs that you recognize from his small wicker table. “Blinds are open in the other room, thought it might be best if we just eat in here.” He sets the chairs apart, facing one another. “Now this is living,” you deadpan. Harry laughs lightly as he gestures for you to sit. The two of you get adjusted with your plates on your lap, and your knees almost bump in the small space. “This is great, Harry. Thank you.”  “I’d make you bubble and squeak, too, but we’re fresh out and Sylvia hates beans so we don’t keep them on hand. So technically...” Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “S’not a full English fry up.” You can only smile around your mouthful, unexpectedly endeared. The rest of breakfast passes in silence. You shouldn’t have slept on an empty stomach; you’re ravenous from skipping a meal last night.  He looks up at you eventually, a touch more serious than before. “Shall we think about heading to the police station soon?”  You dab your mouth with your napkin and nod. Harry stands from his chair and reaches an open hand down to you for your plate. “No, no,” you nudge him away with your elbow. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”  “Let me deal with these. You’re a guest.” “I’m a captive.” “No you’re not! You’re—” He breaks off, hesitating a moment before plunging on with an amused slant to his lips. “You’re my sort-of friend.” Your assumption he hadn’t overheard that comment to your mother last night on the phone was clearly in vain. You press your lips together against any inadvertent reaction. Your head swivels toward him, eyes full of lighthearted reproach. “Look, just let me do the dishes to give myself the illusion that I’m not just a freeloader here. Besides, I’m already ready to go.” "Fine,” he caves disapprovingly. “I’ll get myself sorted and be out in a minute.” “Take your time.” While Harry is preoccupied, you finish slotting the clean plates from breakfast carefully into the drying rack and pull out your phone to message India. Hey, I have a lot to update you on but it’ll be much easier to explain in person. I still have your car and I need it for one thing this morning but I promise I’ll fill the tank ASAP. It’s about the guy that’s been following me. Just know that I’m safe and everything’s okay. I’ll call you when I can. Love you. Send. That’ll have to do for now. Harry returns in jeans and a sweater. It’s still strange to see him so dressed down. “Ready?” he asks. “Yeah. You mind if I wear this to the police station?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his cardigan. You feel the urge to explain yourself—the hole in your sweater, the grime—but Harry’s already shaking his head. “Not at all. Do you maybe want something a little less… loud? I don’t even wear that one out, myself, really.”  You consider the bright cacophony of color like it’s brand new to your eyes. Loud is right. “Yeah, that’s not a terrible idea.”  Harry’s lips twitch. “C’mon then. You’re welcome to pick anything you’d like.” Pick? You nod because you���re worried the surprise is painted on your face. “Okay.” Harry leads you to his bedroom again, and over to the large wooden wardrobe.  He pulls the double doors open and you cannot help yourself from gawking a little. You’re taken by all the exquisite patterns and intricate textures of the suits, but it’s oddly wistful to run your fingertips along all of them hung in a row. You smile privately, a bit removed. “What?” Harry laughs from behind you. “Nothing!” you reply, glancing over your shoulder before saying more softly, “I just recognize some of these.” “Oh, thought you were sizing them up. My mates all take the piss… They say my suits are eccentric.” He rolls his eyes, reciting the insult like he’s quoting their words verbatim. You turn back around to his closet. “I think they look nice—I think you look nice in them.” You take a step back and crane your neck to the shelf of folded sweaters above the hanging rod. The extensive array of muted wool and cotton is a bit overwhelming. You spot the planet sweater he’d worn the first time you saw Sylvia, the oversized yellow one that reminded you of Charlie Brown, the black one with half a red heart and the letters, NY in bold white text… It takes a minute of jogging your memory before you can recall him wearing something more plain. Harry doesn’t own a lot of plain. You still can’t quite reach the shelf up on your tiptoes, but Harry is at your side immediately. “The brown?” He tugs it from the stacks and passes it down. “Yeah, thanks.” You examine the camel colored fabric with tiny flecks of black thread, and run your hand along the smooth purl. “This should do.” You tug the sweater over your head; it’s boxy, your arms aren’t long enough to fit, and it isn’t doing any favors for your shoulders. You have to roll the sleeves up past your wrists before the outfit can half pass as something you purposely wore out of the house. You spin around to face him. “Does it look normal?” Harry’s jaw flexes as he gives you the up-down. You fiddle with one of the sleeves. “Yeah,” Harry says stiffly. “Looks normal.” It’s bizarre walking through the level six hallway; it’s identical to your own, but the last time you’d been here, everything down to the carpet and light fixtures had been tainted by your deafening fear. What’s more is that riding down in the lift with Harry feels entirely different now. You see it all from his perspective, and try to visualize what you look like to him most mornings, standing in the corner with your school bag and a book tucked beneath your arm. The lift picks up a few people on its way down, but by the time it reaches the garage, you and Harry are alone. You catch his eyes in the reflection of the doors a second before they open. He clears his throat. “I know it’s probably… we’ll be fine, but stay close, yeah?” You look up at him and nod. It’s easy to keep to your word. Harry guides you to walk in front of him the entire way as your eyes scan the shadows in between the rows of cars. You’re sure you will never be able to see this garage quite the same way. “It’s the old Volkswagen.” “I see it.” You’re so out of it that you almost try to get in on the passenger side. It’s the kind of slip up that Harry might have teased you about, but he’s quiet and looking around, too. You pull the jacket you’d left on the seat last night into your lap, the two of you strap in, and you cannot pull out into the street fast enough. The mustard yellow envelope in the back seat is an unwelcome passenger, visible in your rearview mirror.  Who else knew about these photos? How many are there that weren’t in your envelope? Are they online somewhere? Would they follow you to law school? Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as you grind your teeth. “Alright?” Harry asks. His voice brings you back down to earth. He’d asked you that question when you pricked your finger on the poppy in your jacket pocket. He’d asked you in his bed on the most terrifying night of your life. And he’s asking you now. You nod. “I will be.” • saturday, 5th january 10:42 am • In the parking lot behind Lavender Hill Police Station, you’ve killed the engine but remain in your seat. Part of you is still reluctant to have Harry come along; keeping your composure in front of the police feels hard enough without the prospect of him being there, too, but maybe that’s the one thing that will get you through this. “Sorry.” You shake your head, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting motionless at the wheel. Harry’s gaze is unperturbed. He watches you push anxiously at the sleeves of his sweater. “Take all the time you need.” It’s the same phrase the initial officer who’d taken your statement all those weeks ago had used. It’s what Officer Warren had said to you on the phone last night, and you’re so tired of hearing it. You don’t want to have as much time as you need to feel calm or steady or normal again. You want your time back. You want to reclaim all those extra seconds spent checking over your shoulder, the minutes lost to changing your routes, and the hours spent staring up at the ceiling when you should have been asleep. Rationally, you know that there will be time to relearn how to walk down the street and feel at ease, and plan that trip to Brighton you and India have been talking about for months. There will be time with Harry that isn’t this… stuck in a cramped space, crushed by the weight of your own fear. You hate the way you felt with him in the lift this morning; you want that back most of all. “Faster we get in there,” you say—half to Harry, half to yourself, “the faster we’ll get to leave.” Harry nods. “C’mon then.” The heather grey of the building is no less intimidating than it was in October, but at least this time you don’t have to pull the heavy glass doors open on your own. Inside, you speak with the woman at reception, who gestures for you to sit in a small waiting area just beyond the desk. People in uniform bustle back and forth. Harry’s leg brushes against yours as you sit. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You have no sense of how long you sit waiting—this doesn’t feel like a place where it’s appropriate to play Solitaire on your phone. You can feel Harry looking at you periodically, but you don’t glance back until a woman with a familiar voice appears before you. She ushers you to follow with a quick, professional smile. Harry doesn’t quite offer the same, but you’re reassured anyway. “I’m Officer Warren.” She stops at a desk with an empty chair beside it. You take care to shake her hand firmly, introducing yourself with all the confidence you can scrap together. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” “Yes, this is fine.” If either Harry or Officer Warren notice your voice is an octave higher, neither of them make any sign. “Good.” She reaches past you to shake Harry’s hand too. “Harry.” “Nice to meet you both. We can also find a conference room, if you’d like somewhere more private, or if you’d both like to sit.” Harry speaks up when you don’t right away. “I’m fine standing.” He looks exactly as he had in the car—calm and willing to take your lead, so you sit before you can change your mind. Officer Warren smiles again, clearly trying to put you at ease. You wish it was more effective. “Right, well I won’t take up too much of your time. Since I took your statement last night, I’ve already got a copy of the transcript from our conversation over the phone, and you won’t need to go over all of that again.” Your shoulders cave a little in relief. Harry’s fingers hook gently over the top of your chair. “Okay.” “But,” she continues, “there is the matter of how to proceed. What we talked about regarding your flat still stands… it really isn’t safe for you to remain there, especially since the suspect seems to know which one is yours, and we still don’t have a clear idea of where he is now, or how he was able to access the car park in your building in the first place.” “So…” You shake your head, in either confusion or denial. “I can’t even go home?” “I’m afraid not, for the time being.” Her eyes are soft, regretful. “Not if he knows where you live. Not if there’s a chance he could get more photographs, or try to break in again.” Your stomach twists. “Were you able to figure out who he is?” You’re not even sure you want to know. Officer Warren’s mouth pinches apologetically. “Not yet. We have a couple technicians working on the security footage and the photos you’ve turned in, so hopefully we’ll be able to get something from them. The car he was driving had no plates. You haven’t seen any sign of him since we spoke last?” You shake your head, and she glances up at Harry as if to confirm. “Alright, that’s a good sign at least. He knows we’re watching, now. On the other hand, there’s a chance he’ll carry on, but be stealthier about it. Is it possible for you to physically stay inside, completely out of sight for let’s say, a week?” “I mean… where?” “Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the time being? With a friend?” You open your mouth, but the “Yes,” is not your own. You force yourself not to turn back to look at him; Harry’s fingers touch your shoulder again. “Yes, she does. She can stay with me. We live in the same building after all, so it’ll hardly be disruptive.” Officer Warren gives him a long look. You can’t tell if she approves or is displeased with him for speaking for you, but now that the initial shock has worn off, gratitude washes over you. Asking India to stay with her indefinitely would have been out of the question; there’s no way you’re endangering your best friend any more than you already have. You’d be putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no. She has four roommates. She doesn’t even know about the photos yet.  “That works,” you hear yourself say. This will only be for a few days, you reason—it’ll buy you just enough time to find your feet. By then, you can sort out a longer-term place to stay if the police still haven’t found the man. Officer Warren is speaking again, and it takes effort to actively refocus on the conversation. “The objective here is to make it seem as though you’re gone. On holiday. He’ll be keeping an eye on the building, no doubt, so he’ll notice if the car is gone, or your flat is empty. Is there any way you can take your classes remotely?” You find you can barely speak, so you just nod instead.  She leans in a little, her eyes finding yours more carefully. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ve been incredibly strong. This won’t be forever. In the meantime, we can send an officer back with you this afternoon so you can gather a few of your things.” You nod again. “Do you have any questions for me?” You force yourself to say, “No, thank you,” which Harry echoes. Officer Warren nods, almost perfunctorily, and stands. “If you wait here just a minute, I’ll introduce you to the officer who’ll take you back to your flat. You’ll be in an unmarked car, and we can arrange for yours to be retrieved.” “Thank you. I’ll call my friend now,” you say. “Maybe she can… I'll have to ask her to look after my cat. And it’s her car, anyway.” Officer Warren nods, apparently satisfied.  You shake her hand again, though your mind is stuck on this won’t be forever. As you rise from the chair, you feel the gentle pressure of Harry’s hand on the small of your back. When Officer Warren returns with another uniformed policeman, you don’t want to move, but your legs carry you anyway. Harry’s gaze finds the side of your face periodically like a lighthouse beam while you call India from the backseat of the police car. After reassuring her again that you’re fine, you gloss over the details of staying in Harry’s flat. You can tell even in her silence that she’s not going to let you off the hook that easily, so you start rambling about what to do with Chowder before she gets the chance to say something embarrassing while Harry is sitting right there. “Of course I’m taking Chowder,” she says before you get the chance to phrase the question. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll get in a cab right now. Do you need help packing up?” “Yeah sure, thank you. But what about your car?” “I’ll take the keys from you and get it after. Honestly, it’s fine. It’s not like it’s gonna get stolen from the bloody police station.” It’s a stupid joke but you’re comforted a little anyway. “Okay.” “Be there soon. I love you.” “Love you too.” Harry glances over at you. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” You smile a little and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel forced. “She’s gonna meet us at home and take Chowder for me.” “That’s great.” “I know,” you reply, a little distant. “Harry, thank you for coming with me… It was nice not to have to, y’know, do that alone.” “That’s alright.” His voice is equally gentle. “We’re gonna… They’re gonna find him. And they’re gonna fix this, and then everything’s gonna go back to normal.” You aren’t sure which of you he’s trying to reassure, but Harry meets your eyes and you nod. Back at your building, you meet up with India. “Think I might just pop home, if that’s alright,” Harry says, going in for the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “I told Annie a bit about what’s going on, but I owe her an update.” “Of course.” You look up at him in the reflection of the doors. “We’ll see you down there.” It’s your first time seeing the dent and scratches on the door to your flat in person. You shiver, turn the key, and push the door open.  “Chowder!” you shout as a flash of orange darts through your legs, meowing down the hall. The officer’s hand lands reflexively on his baton as your cat scares all three of you half to death. Once you manage to corral your cat back to your corner of the hallway, you struggle to keep him still in your arms. “Indy, his crate is under my bed—” “Hold off a minute, I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. I’m sure everything’s fine, but wait out here.” The officer leaves the door cracked open behind him. India offers a small, encouraging smile when you flinch at the sound of him announcing himself in your apartment. You stroke between Chowder’s ears; he is heavy and warm in your arms, and his fur sticks uncomfortably to the sweat on your palms. “All clear.” The officer reappears. “Let’s try to be quick about this.” India immediately ducks through the door following him, but you have to take a deep breath before stepping through the threshold. The place looks completely untouched. Had you been expecting company, perhaps you would have thought to clear the dishes from the sink or remove your laundry from the drying rack. After coercing an unusually talkative Chowder into his travel crate, you and India work as a team to stuff as much into your duffel bag as will fit. Shirts, bras, and pants hurtle past your head. “Indy, I’m staying at a neighbor’s for a few days—what on earth am I going to need this for?” You hold up the silk, strappy dress that just landed on your neatly-folded stacks, shooting her a disapproving look. “I’m just grabbing and throwing!” “Well just, y’know… let’s make sure we’re not speeding through this at the expense of packing with a little common sense.” “I’ve got this,” India says, waving down at the open duffel. “Go sort whatever toiletries you need, yeah?” Thankfully you’ve stayed overnight at her place enough times to warrant a travel case of essentials that lives under your bathroom sink. There’s makeup cluttered all over the counter. You stare at it a moment before rolling your eyes at yourself. “We should probably get going.” The officer’s voice from the other room startles you both as India zips up your duffel. “Are you two about ready?”  As you stick your head out of your bedroom, the officer is peeking through the blinds across the street. “Yes,” you reply. “We are.” Overnight bag and Chowder in tow, you clamber back onto the lift. “Did you get your toothbrush?” “Yes.” “Face wash?” “Yes.” “Pillow?” “Indy, you saw me putting it in—” “Towel?” “Yes.” “Phone charger?” “… Shit.” Ding. The officer steps out with you on the sixth floor as you thank him, and bid a quick goodbye once he reassures you to call if you need anything or, of course, if anything happens. India turns to face you next. “He’s this way.” You nod down the hall, and she leads. “It’s right at the end. The one with the wreath.” The doors of the lift close. You don’t want to think about the last time you’d been walking down this corridor and heard that sound from behind you. India moves aside holding Chowder’s crate by the handle, and the shopping bag full of his supplies as you step up to the welcome mat with your things. Harry swings open the door to his apartment after the second knock, immediately taking the duffel bag from off of your shoulder. “Oh, Harry, you don’t have to—” “I got it.” India elbows you in the ribs. Harry turns to carry your bag to Sylvia's room, and when you look behind at her, her eyebrows are raised above an animated smirk. “Don’t,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She raises a hand in defense as Harry returns before reaching out to accept his offered hand. “Hello, I’m India.” “Harry.”  “Pleasure.” He flashes her a warm smile. She nods appreciatively as they shake hands—at you, however, instead of Harry and your cheeks ignite. “Okay great. That’s settled then. Shall we—um… Indy?” You cut in, then turn to her, nodding to the door with I’m going to kill you in your eyes. “Lovely to meet you, Harry!” “Cheers, dear. You as well.” Harry’s attention returns to you for a moment. “I’ll just be…” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. You step out into the hall with India. Chowder meows from the crate in her arms and she almost drops him. “What,” you hiss, “was that?”  She ignores your tone, then says your name like it’s a plea. “Call me if you need absolutely anything, or text me—no matter what time it is. I’ll drop everything and come straight to you.” “I’m sleeping two floors below where I usually do, Indy, I’m not dying.” “I know, I know… How’s a Skype dinner tomorrow night? I’ll order us a take away.” “Definitely.” You wish you could squeeze her in another tight hug, but Chowder’s crate impedes you. “Thank you.” “Love you, babe.” “Love you too.” She looks unsatisfied. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. Text me when we’re eating, okay?” You begin to walk backward into Harry’s apartment and blow her a kiss. “I will… Bye!” “Please don’t kill my cat!” You lean on the door frame, watching India’s silhouette shrink as she heads back down the hall to the lift with Chowder. You sigh and close the door, but as you turn around, your hand rushes to your chest in a gasp; Harry is standing just behind you, rubbing his face. “So I’ve just rung Annie while you were upstairs… ” He steps aside to give you a clear path through the hallway. “Oh?” “I’m sorry—they’re just coming,” he rushes, sounding a little panicked as you step into Sylvia's room. You set your phone and laptop down with the rest of your things. “They insisted ‘cause they’ve got a spare mattress, and I told them you needed a place to crash for a bit and also that you stayed here last night so… yeah. You don’t have to be here for that. When they come—oh, and they probably have Sylvia, too, if that’s… ” Harry trails off.” “Wait, I’m sorry.” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Annie? You mean—” “Sylvia’s mum, yeah, and um… her fiancé, AJ.” Harry tilts his head down, as if to gauge your reaction. “And they want to give… they have a spare mattress? But you already have a mattress.” “That’s what I said!” Harry gestures wildly. It must have been a lively phone call. “Oh, well that’s… awfully kind of them,” you begin, trying to keep up. “Would it be easier if I wasn’t—” “No.” He’s clearly surprised at his own volume as he cuts you off. Harry literally leans back, hesitating. “I mean… stay. They’d love to meet you. They’re my family and you’re…” His eyes flit back to yours and hang on. “You’re obviously gonna to be staying here a bit, and they drop by all the time so I jus’ don’t wanna overwhelm you, is all.” Suddenly, it’s your turn struggling to look at him. “Well, I—” “H, open the door! This is heavy!” a voice bellows from beyond the front door. Harry’s eyes shut momentarily. “Coming!” he calls. You stand there, in the doorway to Sylvia’s room, stunned at the pace with which this is all unfolding. Harry jogs to the door. You poke your head out as an explosion of noise disrupts what had before been so peaceful. A child’s high-pitched shriek rips through the flat, followed by a long, labored groan from Harry as Sylvia barrels into his arms and he crouches down to lift her. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” he greets. Sylvia simply continues screaming and tries to bend over backward out of his arms. “Hi, Harry.” A striking woman with jet-black hair waltzes in, carrying a large dish of food wrapped in tin foil, seemingly unphased. Harry shifts Sylvia to one arm, bending over to greet her in a side hug and quick kiss to the cheek. “Hi, love.” What appears to be a twin sized mattress with twig legs follows in suit, grunting softly. “Still heavy.” “Right, sorry.” Harry hands Sylvia off to who you assume is Annie as he hurries to take the mattress, revealing a second, much taller woman with sunglasses atop her blonde head of hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and bright suede pumps. “There we go,” she sighs. “I need a fag.” Harry almost takes out a light fixture as he hauls the bed. You press yourself up against the wall as he offers a quick, “S’cuse me,” and passes you to Sylvia's room. The two women look at you as simultaneous smiles light their faces. “Hi!” “Hello!” Sylvia waves at you, too. “Guess this one doesn’t need an introduction,” the dark-haired woman laughs, approaching with a hand extended. You notice that she’s the one wearing the ring. “I’m Annie.” “It’s great to meet you, Harry has spoken so highly of both of you.” You turn to the other woman after introducing yourself. “AJ.” One corner of her mouth quirks up. “It’s a pleasure.” “Thank you so much for the mattress, ” you begin, wringing your hands. “It seems like everyone’s done so much to help me in the past few days… It’s really meant a lot.” AJ tilts her head to look at you with a more meaningful gaze, and Annie steps forward to rest a hand on your forearm. “Harry hasn’t gone into a terrible amount of detail but… we’re so, awfully sorry for what’s happened to you.” She squeezes gently, her fingers in the crook of your elbow. The strange familiarity of the gesture disarms you. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through, and with your family so far away—I just… we heard about what was going on, and that was it. We had to help.” You nod and suddenly have trouble swallowing. There’s just something different about discussing this with women. “Harry’s air mattress,” AJ chips in, sardonic, “belongs in an incinerator.” “Hey!” His voice comes muted from the open door of Sylvia’s bedroom. Now that you’ve seen the both of them together up close, you realize how wrong you were in thinking that Sylvia only took after her father. Annie’s features are evident in her daughter’s deep, brown eyes, her nose, and the high angles of her cheeks.  “Well,” Annie starts, raising her eyebrows at everyone, “we’re obviously feeding you.” You laugh in disbelief. “No you’re not!” “We are!” She smiles as she sets Sylvia down, who weaves through everyone’s legs to her bedroom. “And relax, it’s already cooked so there’s no use in turning it down.” AJ pulls you in for a side hug, which you were grossly unprepared for. “Thank… you.” In your bewilderment, it’s all you can manage to say as Annie removes the tin foil from a full pan’s helping of chicken and vegetables. “Isn’t this supposed to be tomorrow’s roast? The Sunday roast?” Harry appears in the kitchen with Sylvia on his hip. He frowns, poking his head over Annie’s shoulder as she preheats the oven. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies. They lock eyes. Something tender passes between them; part of you feels like you should look away. “Annie… ” Harry says, softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.” She ignores him, setting the timer on the oven as AJ slides a small mountain of tupperware into the fridge. The kettle starts to scream. You hadn’t realized someone started tea. You’re not sure what to do besides stand by the sink and stare. AJ rushes over to fill four steaming mugs, portioning different amounts of cream and honey into each. She turns to the few stray dishes in the sink, beginning to wash. “AJ, stop tha—” “Harry, relax would you?” She whips his leg with a dish towel and he relents. “Why is she staying in my room?” Sylvia pipes up from Harry’s arms. He looks across the kitchen at you, and then down to her. “Well see, bug, Daddy’s got a friend who’s gonna stay here for a little while.” Harry points at you and twists so she has a better view. You wave your fingers at her, and Harry asks Sylvia if she can say your name, but she simply buries her face into his sweater. “Like a slumber party?” “Um—” Harry falters. “Sort of, but not quite.” “It’s a grown-up slumber party?” AJ chokes on her tea. The tips of Harry’s ears go crimson.  “Honey, it’s like when Auntie Kristen comes over to Mummy and Mum’s to stay on holiday,” Annie salvages. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax.  Sylvia tugs at the collar of Harry’s sweater. “How long?” she begs. Your heart falls. “‘M not sure, Vi.” Harry moves some hair from her face as she pouts, then kisses her forehead. “Not forever.” “This’ll be good for you, Harry. You need more friends.” Annie pinches Harry’s side before turning to you with a smirk. “Maybe you can finally start hanging out with people your own age.” You shrug to play along, pursing your lips against a smile. “I mean… ” “Harry doesn’t go out much.” Annie’s comedic whisper fills the room as she carries your tea over to you. “Neither do you!” Harry retorts, frowning playfully over his shoulder, attempting to smack her; she narrowly dodges. “Yeah, just the one time,” AJ deadpans, pointing between them and then nodding to Sylvia. “Jesus Christ,” Harry breathes before they break into laughter. You can’t help but join in. Sylvia’s head swings from parent to parent, smiling in oblivious delight. “Alright, alright,” Annie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just leave the roast in there until you’re ready to eat. We should get going soon.” “Have you got sheets that fit the bed?” Harry asks, bouncing Sylvia on his hip. “Right!” Annie’s eyes go wide. She turns to AJ, “Darling, you mind popping down to the car to get those?” “Since I already hauled up the mattress, am I allowed to play the gender card?” AJ throws eyes at Harry. “Hands are full,” he replies cheerfully. He holds one of Sylvia’s arms up to wave. “Fine,” she relents, plucking the keys from Annie’s back pocket. “Thank you!” Annie calls after her. AJ simply waves a hand behind her head. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while later!” AJ begins to walk faster. Harry shoots Annie a jokingly scandalized look with a hand covering his gaping mouth. She squints at him and rolls her eyes. He puts Sylvia down, whispering in her ear as he points to the miniature arts and crafts table in the living room.  Sylvia takes a seat on the colorful stool, her tiny features already pinched in concentration as she finds a crayon and begins to draw. Harry crouches at her side, watching her for a moment before kissing the top of her head. He breezes past you before you hear the bathroom door lock shut and now it’s just you and Annie alone together. “I love Harry, but he’s a man and he doesn’t know anything.” You shouldn’t laugh, but you do. “We live ten minutes away. If you need anything at all—anything, I mean it, please call us. Mine and AJ’s mobile numbers are both on the fridge.” “Thank you, Annie.” She hesitates, playing absently with the tag of her tea bag before nodding to the living room. “Let’s sit.” You have a seat on the couch; Annie takes the small leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Her eyes are warm. You see a flash of that expression that had passed between her and Harry. “He is a good man.” Annie’s voice is so low, it’s almost a whisper. “One of the best I’ve ever met… You’re in good hands, I promise.” There isn’t a chance for you to respond as the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom interrupts. Harry re-enters the living room, his eyes flitting between yours and Annie’s with a curious look on his face. “Am I interrupting something?” “Course not, lovely. We’re just waiting for AJ with the sheets,” Annie replies. She must be killer at poker. AJ slips through the door with a folded bundle of checkered sheets nearly covering her face. “Miss me?” She perches on the armrest of Annie’s chair upon returning from Syvia’s room, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. You are acutely aware of the warmth of Harry’s leg against yours, suddenly too nervous to shift and potentially draw attention to it. Though you try hard not to, you can practically see the silent conversation happening between the three other adults in the room; if you had to guess, it’s probably about you. You categorically refuse to look at Harry, so you’re left with AJ’s nearly imperceptible eyebrow-raising, and a curl of Annie’s lip that seems to be a question and a confirmation all at once. The three of them are a little… too quiet. “Well we should be off then,” she says, drawing her hands together in a clap. “Someone needs a bath tonight.”  Sylvia hurries over and locks her arms around Harry’s legs. He scoops her up like she weighs absolutely nothing. “C’mon now, angel,” he murmurs, glancing over his daughter’s head to look at you with a vaguely resigned expression. “Gonna see you tomorrow, aren’t I? Gotta be good for your mums.” Harry fixes Sylvia’s wobbling lower lip with a stern look. “Hey, now. What’s this about? S’not any different from Mummy’s normal turn with you, right? You know you’ve got too much love pumpkin, we gotta share ya.” Sylvia mumbles something too soft to make out; Harry ducks his head close. “Tell me?” You don’t catch all the words, except, “stars.” His face crumples a bit. “Oh honey, of course you’ll still have your bedtime stars. They’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s gonna take your stars.” “And that sounds like the beginning of a meltdown,” Annie says, standing quickly and pulling Sylvia from Harry’s arms. “Best be on our way before she tests all our eardrums.” Sylvia momentarily seems like she might reach back for him, but then she looks at you as though by accident, and shrinks back into her mother’s arms. Shame knots in your stomach as the two women head for the door. Sylvia peeks over Annie’s shoulder as AJ slings her purse over her arm with the car keys in hand. You busy yourself clearing the empty mugs of tea in some small attempt to give them privacy. “Come ‘round about six, yeah?” Annie says as AJ waves at you and disappears first out the door. Harry is sliding Sylvia’s arm through the second sleeve of her coat. His and Annie’s teamwork seems fluid and practiced. “Sounds good.” He tugs her tiny knit hat more securely over her curls. “Love you, bug.” “Hôn ba đi, Vi.”  You have no idea what Annie’s just said to Sylvia but Harry leans forward to receive his daughter’s kiss, placing an audible one on her forehead in return.  He says something else to Sylvia that’s not English. That deeply tender look in Annie’s face returns. Harry’s hand falls to her waist and she touches his jaw to place a quick peck at the corner of his mouth. “Call us if you need anything.” She turns back to you. “You too. Our numbers are—” “On the fridge,” you finish with a smile, waving. “Thank you, Annie.” Harry shuts the door behind them and the flat falls silent for the first time in what feels like ages. You hear him laugh once before he turns to you. “Sorry about that.” “No. Harry, I should be the one apologizing. Sylvia’s so upset, I feel awful.” Harry looks from you to the door and back again, shaking his head as he moves towards the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about that. She was mostly tired, is all. Happens all the time.” He pauses before joking, “Sorry you had to hear my really terrible Vietnamese.” You watch as he begins to rifle through the cabinets. “What are you doing?” “I’m sure I left it in here somewhere—aha!” He holds an empty mason jar aloft before grabbing a sharpie and the magnetic pad of Hello Kitty sticky notes from the fridge door. Harry scrawls quickly, the cap of the pen between his teeth, before sticking a note on the glass and holding it up for you to read the big, block letters. APOLOGIES.

[marlahey]

under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.)  utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020) 

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

[marlahey]

NOT asking when UTSR will be updated, just wondering if you have an answer on if it eventually will be updated? I’ve understood you don’t want to release the old writing, but would you if you feel like you don’t want to finish the rewrite anymore? 🥺 I never read it the first time around, so I would love to read the conclusion and I’ve heard so much about the story! sorry I just want to know if I should accept the unfinished ending and try to forget the story, hope you understand and wont be mad

Hi anon!

We're not dropping the fic, promise :) It's actually pretty much done, just stuck in stasis– the back three parts need editing but we just haven't really found the time. It's the hardest part of the process and takes the most collaboration. I'm transitioning to a new job and AJ's schedule with her new job is basically opposite of mine; I just moved and she's about to. IT'S A LOT.

On the bright side, my last day is in a few weeks and I'll be on vacation to my parents with nothing but time! I'm hoping that AJ and I will be able to get the fic out in its entirety by the end of the summer but please don't quote me on that lol.

[marlahey]

heeeere patiently waiting for the kitchen scene 😌😌😌😌😌😌 utsr has been amazing!!! as always!!! loved the final scene in part 5 🤍

👀👀👀👀👀👀

[marlahey]

You and AJ are icons I just wanted to say that

Anonymous asked: omg im so happy my favorite writers are baaackkk i haven’t had the time to read it yet but i just know ill love it

Anonymous asked: I just wanted to thank you and AJ for deciding to re-release UTSR. It’s one of my favorite pieces of writing regarding Harry. You and AJ are both phenomenal writers. I appreciate your time and efforts. Looking forward to the rest.

Anonymous asked: Love love love utsr!!! Can’t wait for the last two parts!

Anonymous asked: omg I literally just reread the first 3 parts of utsr yesterday.. great timing I love u both!!!

Anonymous asked: screaming, crying, thank you!

I don’t like clogging up people’s dashboards with asks so I just wanted to extend a huge thank you to everyone who’s sent in messages lately! It’s been an absolute joy to be back and actual feedback and comments totally make our day. ‘Like’ culture has really fucked up the tumblr experience in the last several years so we’re grateful for every reblog and every typed word of joy or excitement.  Can’t wait to share the final chapter with y’all! 

[marlahey]

heyyy.. i recently found UTSR again and i was soo excited!!! read all the parts you have up so far and i Love it so much.. definitly one of my favorite fics ever. i have a question. why did you guys decide to make sylvia a little older than before?

Hi anon! Thanks so much for reading and glad you like it. It was honestly just easier from a child development perspective lol. Toddlers don’t usually speak in full sentences and can be super wary of strangers, so aging Sylvia up let us keep a lot of the same scenes but have them be a little more believable. :)

[marlahey]

Hi friend! No rush or pressure of course, but just curious as to how utsr is coming along? Prob one of my favorite stories I’ve read xx

Hi anon! We’re at a bit of a standstill unfortunately – AJ and I are both working full-time now and honestly kinda going through it; for now the fic’s on a bit of a hiatus until we’re able to connect and work on it. Thanks so much for your kind message. We’re so pleased you enjoy it! 

[marlahey]

hi, quick question. are there only three chapters up for UTSR? or are the other ones up ? great fic btw!

hi anon! currently only three of six. aj and I got totally derailed just before christmas and since I’m back at work we’ve been having a hard time carving out editing sessions on the back three parts. we won’t leave you hanging forever though I promise! they’re all written, just need some clean up. 

[marlahey]

apologies for being annoying, but do you have an eta for utsr? i miss her🥺

not annoying anon, I just don’t have an answer unfortunately! AJ and I have been playing phone tag all week lol but hopefully we’ll actually be able to get a proper chat in tomorrow, let alone a last pass at part 4. thankfully 5 and 6 are largely in good shape. :) 

hello!!! just checking in - absolutely no rush for UTSR just wanted to thank you so much for sharing it with us again. it’s so special. cheers 🥰

you’re the sweetest! thank you :) 

hi! whatever happened to harryonstage? i loved her writing! does she have another account? xx

hi anon! aj didn’t enjoy the tumblr scene anymore so she no longer keeps a blog. i’ll definitely pass the message along though! 

[marlahey]

Hiii! Is there a usual time you post the new chapter of UTSR? No hurry just wondering when to check back :)

Hi anon! We’re usually posting around 8pm EST, but we’re thinking it’ll be delayed a couple days. We’re both dealing with family holiday obligations for the next two weeks so it’s put a bit of a wrinkle in the editing schedule.

[marlahey]

NYE MAKING ME THINK OF UTSR WHERE IS MY DILF IN AN ELEVATOR ?!!

Me, every time I ride the elevator with a cute dad 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

[marlahey]

Hi! Just wanted to pop in and say a massive HOORAY and THANK YOU to you and AJ for bringing back utsr!!! Utsr was the first fic I had read that really swept me off my feet. I remember reading it the first time, where I was and what I was doing at that point in my life. This story really moved me and has stuck with me this past year and a bit or however long it has been since you first published (can't really even remember time before 2020 and covid 😖). It's a wonderful journey of words and imagination and will hold a special place in my heart for a long time. Thanks once again to you both and your brilliant minds. I hope AJ is well! We miss her. All the best to you both xx Now, off to indulge in part 1! So excited!! THANK YOU

you’re so welcome anon! thank you so much for this lovely message! I’m doing final format edits on part two right now before it goes up late lol. we hope you it :) 

[marlahey]

Hi! Will UTSR be posted on @mermaidbush on Wattpad at the same time as you post it here? Or do you have a tag list? :) (just looking for a notification-system for it)

Hi anon! We’re not going to put UTSR on Wattpad, but I’m happy to tag you when we post the last few chapters if you leave me your username! 

[marlahey]

Annie I'm so ecstatic to have utsr again!! you and aj are angels <3 i loved it so much the first time and i love this version too, i remember the racist anon so i think its great that now sylvia has a vietnamese name and that they use the language :) i wanted to ask about how you two decided on the smaller edits, like her not putting on red lipstick or borrowing the hair band and they having coffee instead of tea. i get the larger edits but the details make me curious <3

Hi anon! Thanks for the question. 😊 We really wanted to get rid of extraneous fluff in the top three chapters since the other half has so much, and emphasize the more serious tones of parts two and three. She doesn’t really need to wear lipstick to the station, nor does it make sense; they also drink a lot of tea through this fic haha so a coffee interlude was in order. There’s a lot of basic plot to get through so we wanted to thin it down and most importantly keep the situations and reactions as realistic as possible.